When Memories Die
by SarinSyn
Summary: The 02 Pilot wasn't supposed to exist. Killed before the war, he certaintly wasn't lovers with Heero and Wufei. Nor really THE ACTUAL God of Death.But when Trieze is revealed as a demon, and Duo's discovered as a slave, what will they do to fix fate?
1. Chapter 1: Vague Recollections

**Chapter 1  
Vague Recollections  
**

* * *

Violet eyes flashed with a sweet, one-of-a-kind joy that only a certain American could possess. A soft pink tongue danced across his lips, whetting them nervously before he spoke again. 

"Come on, Wuffers!" he pleaded, eyes childish and excited.

"You want me to bless a pen?" Wufei asked incredulously, a bit blown away by the out of the blue request. The boy nodded, looking up to him from where he had paused in assembling the kitchen cupboards of the house they were building. Then he hesitated another moment, as if thinking, then shook his head, denying Wufei's question. Another moment, and he nodded again, then shrugged, showing the indecisive nature that epitomized this enchanting nymph.

"Kind of a pen," the boy explained. "More like a permanent marker."

"Why me? Aren't you the priest?" Wufei asked, reaching down to tug the white collar of the holy man's outfit. The boy grinned up to him as Wufei kneeled down beside him, studying him closely.

"You're the last of your clan left alive, right?" the American asked, lowering down the wrench he held and shifting to more clearly look at the Chinese man. Wufei nodded, then followed it with a "Hai,"—a trademark phrase he had received from their Japanese lover. "Well," the American continued, his gaze turning hopeful. "There's an enchantment I once read, and it says 'Be it blessed by the orphaned kin, then ne'er shall it be one forgotten,' or something that rhymes like that. You know how those spells go…always rhyming like it was written by Shakespeare on crack." Wufei quirked a brow. He could tell be the incessant rambling that the boy was nervous. "What it means is that, a person who's the last of his clan—like you, my most precious dragon—has all the power and energy of those who he survived, and if you use those powers to bless something, then whatever markings it makes can never go away or be truly covered up." Wufei's brows wrinkled.

"Since when have you been into magic?" he asked, but immediately regretted it. The American gave a barely visible wince, looking down.

"Please, Wufei?" he pleaded, voice hushed and sincere. Wufei was tempted to deny the request, but when those deep, amethyst orbs gazed up and his lower lip slightly pouted out, he knew he couldn't say no. Snagging the pen—or, permanent marker, per se— from his lover's hand, he sat down fully in front of him and gave him a droll stare.

"Fine," he growled. "What do I do?" The boy looked up, and suddenly he could see the true, sincere joy spilling from every pore. He placed his hands over Wufei's, long fingers curling around the oriental's darker digits. The touch was hot, electric, as if lit by something more than natural body heat. Like a blaze of energy was boiling the blood of the long-haired pilot, causing Wufei to shiver. The power behind that touch was surreal, and took all play out of the moment.

"Just promise me, Wufei, that you'll never forget me." The boys agonized whisper took him aback. Wufei was stunned. Forget him? How could he ever forget the boy who made him and Heero's blood boil with passion? Who was the humor to their complexity? The light their dark? The person who had taught them both that there was more to life than vengeance and being perfect?

"I'll never forget you, love," he murmured, lifting the hands to kiss adoringly across his knuckles.

"You'd be amazed what you forget," the American replied, voice constricting painfully. Wufei wondered at those words, but before he could ask, the American continued. "Now, just repeat after me." Wufei did as he was told.

"With this power I bestow

To never let this curse take hold—

Whatever here is written down

Will last beyond all time and bounds."

Wufei said each phrase with the same passion of the boy, and was surprised and almost spooked when his hands began to tingle in a way that reminded him of running his palm over a TV screen that had just been turned off. He could almost believe that there really was something to this spell.

Upon completion, they held onto each other for a few, long moments, until the tingling seemed to subside. Amaryllis orbs gazed with a devoted love into Wufei's onyx ones, and all resolve and annoyance melted from the normally stoic, black haired male. Warmth blossomed in his heart as he saw a smile form on the precious face of his beloved, and the two met halfway for a chaste, but soul deep kiss, nuzzling their lips and noses together. Only this boy could ever bring out this gentle, loving side of him…

Slowly, the long-hared American pulled away, lacing their grip together with one hand and taking the marker into the other.

"Hold my hand while I do this?" he requested.

Wufei nodded.

He could never tell him no.

The boy leaned back into the floor level cupboard, angling himself so he could write on the top. Wufei leaned forward to watch, more interested in the body beneath him than the words being written. Resting his head on the slender stomach, he let himself relax, cherishing this sacred moment as if it were their last.

"Why there?" he murmured, lips grazing the soft underside of the American's chin, watching as the boy drew out a big, thick lined heart.

"So no one can ever paint over it," he replied, giving him a sweet smile. Wufei was satisfied with the answer, and watched with a lazy intensity as the boy began to write. Heero's named slowly appeared in the delicate, slow, loopy script, each arch and twirl drawn with the most precise and loving of strokes. It was followed by Wufei's, the almost calligraphic style writing making the English version of his name appear beautiful. He was almost satisfied with it, until he noticed the mischievous glint in the American's eyes, as moved to "dot" the eye with a heart. A hint of a ruffled sneer lifted the edges of the dragon's lips as he huffed his disdain.

"Couldn't you just make a dot?" Wufei demanded, although he didn't really feel insulted. He picked and prodded more out of familiarity and habit, falling easily into the routine he had come to love so well.

"I'm sorry, baby, but you'll have to put with the effeminate injustice. Besides, I think it looks pretty," the boy stated in a tone that let him know there was no two ways about it. But he stopped caring when the American leaned forward and planted an adoring kiss on his forehead. Love swelled up in Wufei's heart, and he turned his head to playfully nip at his chest. Mind trailing off to other things he'd like to nip, he shifted himself to plant the side of his hips directly between the black clad legs of the other, rubbing against his groin. Violet eyes looked down to him with a devious glint. "Just let me finish," the American whispered huskily, and Wufei nodded, gaze turning back up to watch as the pen began to write once more.

And that's when it hit. Anxiety blossomed in the lower pit of Wufei's stomach, causing him to shift uneasily. The same feeling he had the day that Meiran died. Clenching his fist over the twisting knots forming, he lightly chewed his lower lip and tried to banish the growing sensation that something was deathly wrong. He clung tighter to his lover, looking up to him for support, but he could see that the boy felt it as well. Determination was in the violet orbs, mixed with a hint of pain, as if he was struggling to complete an arduous task.

"Love?" Wufei asked nervously, but he got no reply. The body was now shaking, and Wufei turned his gaze to see the pen jerking back and forth as it wrote out a name, the black ink seeming to sink into the wood above him and lose all semblances of letters. Dread trickled down his spine, causing cold panic to dance over each vertebrate and threaten to make him sick. Reaching up to grab for his lover's hand, he wound up instead getting a hold of the pen. The fingers tightened around it went slack, the face of the boy pale and sickly as pressed up into Wufei tightly.

"Don't forget me!" he begged, before pulling back. Their grip on each other went away as the boy removed his hold from his, and as soon as it was gone, the body seemed to dissolve beneath him, right before his very eyes. Horrified at the situation, having no clue what to make of it or what was going on, he pulled back fast to try to escape the tight confines and get some air. His head hit hard on the top of the cabinet as he jumped out, causing dizziness to rush through him. The marker dropped, and it too seemed to fade away.

Sitting hard on his tailbone, he gave himself a moment to catch his breath. The wrench sat in front of the open cabinet drawer, and the little white priest's collar lay beside it, but no other sign of the presence was left. Shaking his head, he opened his mouth to call out, to try to find his lover to calm the growing terror that filled him beyond all reason. But to his chagrin, nothing came out. His mouth opened wider, grabbing once more at his stomach and wondering why he couldn't formulate the name of the boy who made his life bearable to exist, and that's when it hit him.

…for the life of him, Wufei couldn't recall his lover's name….

* * *

There's chapter one! I have a lot of it written out, so it's just a matter of transferring it onto the computer during my free time! 

This is going to be a twisted story, and was inspired in part by Sherrilyn Kenyon's "Dark-Hunter" novels.  
And no, this isn't a cross-over, don't worry! .  
Please read and review, and I promise I'll post more!


	2. Chapter 2: Room For Dellusion

**Chapter 2**  
**Room for Dellusions**

* * *

Wufei jerked awake with a start, unceremoniously dumping his Japanese lover off of his chest. The darkness of the room swarmed around him, mixing with the chilly winter's air to prick over the sweat drenching his bare chest. He grasped in a panic for the sheets, clutching onto them and trying to convince himself of where he was, struggling viciously with his own head to pull himself out of the dream and into the ever present nightmare that was reality.

"Nnng…" Heero groaned, shifting uncomfortably as he came to. "Omae o Ko…" his growl was cut off the moment he saw his lover's rigid form, turning all the annoyance and rage into a worry bordering on panic. Panting heavily, pale as snow, the black haired man stared blearily off into the distance, eyes shining with unshed tears. Ragged breaths ripped past dry lips which twitched in tune with the rest of his body, as if trying to still wrench him from the horrors that waited behind his eyes.

Moving slowly to sit beside him, Heero gently placed a hand on his shoulder. When Wufei didn't jerk away as was normal, he hesitantly wrapped an arm around his waist, waiting the vicious reaction the Chinese man normally gave upon falling in to one of his psychotic states. But instead of hitting or shoving, Wufei instead went tentatively into his hold, pressing his head under his chin and burying his face into the warm pillar of his lover's neck. Relief washed through him, and Heero curled around him protectively, cradling his husband in a sweet embrace. He was grateful that Wufei was finally beginning to accept the comfort. Nearly a year of these "memories" of the imaginary fifth pilot had made Wufei more than averse to being touched, but it seemed the therapy was finally getting through.

An unwilling smile tugged at the corners of Heero's lips, relishing in the all but too unfamiliar feel of the perfect body pressed so tightly against him and seeking comfort. Kissing the top of his head, he rubbed the arms of his shaking lover, murmuring soft, soothing noises into the rumpled mass of black locks.

After long moments, the shivering subsided, and Heero could feel the tension sliding out of Wufei's muscles. The Chinese pilot shifted in his arms and twined his own whipcord limbs around him.

"It was that dream again?" Heero murmured against the crown of his head. Wufei nodded against the lips, slightly pulling back to look into the shadow of Heero's eyes.

"It feels so real," he replied, voice rough and strained, as if he had been screaming for hours. Heero moved to plant a kiss lightly across his lips, but Wufei turned his head away, dodging the touch and slowly moving out of his hold. Times like this, in the dark of night when fake memories and cold chills pervaded his senses, his relationship with Heero bothered him beyond belief. It seemed to feel so wrong. Like something important was missing.

Gripping his hand over his heart, he called to mind the beautiful boy who haunted his dreams. Somehow, that was the peace his mind craved for. The solace and comfort something in him felt had been so wrongfully taken. He was what seemed to be missing from their happy family. And somehow, Wufei could still feel him. His fingers still tingled at the warmth of his remembered touch. His lips still burned from his kiss…

_He's not real,_ the logic in him screamed, overwhelming the wishful side of him that wanted to sink back into the dreams and feel that touch again. No matter how much his mind fooled himself, the boy wasn't real. He had to keep reminding himself of that. He was made up. A figment brought on by the stressors of war and of losing all his friends and family on L5. A way of coping with the loss of everything he knew.

All the pilots suffered from the same problem, but the others had recovered from it much better than he. No one had any clear memories of their times together during the war. Neither he nor Heero recalled exactly the first time they had sex, or even how they had become so close. Every mission was a fog—the only way they were ever able to recall anything was through history text books and old mission assignments Heero had saved on his laptop. Many of the doctors they had seen blamed Wufei's inability to move on as the other's had on the guilt he felt over the loss of his clan, and the pressure those same people had put on him to go from scholar, to monster. Something in him rebelled against that, though. Something in him that wanted so desperately to believe in the existence of the boy whose appearance was quickly fading from his mind. A person he could never fully recall when awake.

"What happened this time?" Heero's voice pierced the turmoil of his thoughts. Black orbs turned up, lost and confused as he stared at the man he inexplicably despised at the moment. So desperately did he want Heero to see the picture in his head. Wanted to tell him every detail about the face and make him remember. Something in him prayed that if he did, then Heero, too, would recall the person that was so important to both of them in his dreams.

_No!_ he growled angrily to himself in his mind. _He's made up. Stop doing this. You're disgracing yourself by thinking these things. You're a fool._

Heero was as surprised as Wufei when the Chinese man suddenly flung himself into his lover's arms, burying his face into his neck and making him fall back on the bed. His precious dragon curled up on top of him, hands curled up by his neck and face lightly nuzzling his shoulder.

"Same thing as always," Wufei relented, studying his finger tips and the way his nails looked raking small circles over Heero's collarbone. "Except this time, I saw him write something. He…" he paused, brows furrowing as his movements stilled, thinking hard and trying recall the hazy details of the nightmare. "He wrote it…on the inside of a cabinet in the kitchen." He sounded surprised by his own revelation. A detail recalled from a dream that was usually so vague.

"Do you remember which one?" Heero asked, gently grasping the underside of Wufei's chin to make him look up to him.

"Kind of," Wufei replied, giving a little shrug. "I'd need to think about." Heero nodded, brushing a sweet kiss across his lips and nuzzling their noses together in a way that caused Wufei's memories to jerk, returning to the dream. Once more, the cold terror trickled down his spine, causing to suddenly grasp onto Heero as if afraid he, too, would just fade away. Feeling the change in his demeanor, Heero held onto him with one arm, still holding his chin with the other, staring down at him and trying to assure him with his hold that he would never leave.

"Well, tomorrow, let's see if you can remember and we'll look. Then we can put this whole notion of a 5th pilot to rest," he assured lovingly, pressing their lips together once again. Wufei nodded, responding weakly with a soft, affirmative noise, before he wrenched his face from the hold and rested his head on his chest once more. Disproving the existence of the dream boy was most likely the best thing for his fragile mind, but the idea of it made him feel sick and depressed.

"_You'd be amazed what you can forget…"_

Those words echoed through his skull. That voice struck a chord so deep within him, it felt as if he would break. Eyes closing, he tried to banish his mind and return it to the blank comfort he once could achieve through meditation. But instead of blessed darkness, he saw violet eyes staring back him, bright with mirth and love.

"_Wuffers, I'll never stop loving you."_

Laughter and warmth flooded his mind, comforting him as he heard the voice speaking from the back of his head. _"You need to stop taking everything so seriously. Lighten up, Wu-man! Jeeze…you think you'd have an aneurism by now!"_ Almost tempted to chuckle at the odd words coming from his own psyche, he opened onyx orbs in a languid motion, gazing over to the picture on the bedside stand. Even if the enigmatic boy was never real, he was a nice thought to soothe his aching wounds.

Studying the photograph next to the bed, he felt sleep begin to tug at him once more, lids fluttering wearily. It was a picture which always made Wufei's body feel light, as if trying to play "What's wrong with this scene?" All four of the pilots stood at an after war ball, held in their honor. They all looked so relieved, so tired, but they were all smiling even brighter than he ever felt they should. It left him with the impression that something was missing…something wasn't right.

They stood in a semi circle—first was Heero, who looked slightly agitated yet smirking, then Wufei, who had a ruffled expression but a half grin on his lips that was completely uncharacteristic of his once stoic and proud demeanor. _Perhaps that expression was the first sign of me falling into madness?_ A bit of space stood between he and Trowa, who was looking down to the gap almost as if there were a nude picture on the floor. And then Quatre, who was beaming as if he were suppressing uproarious laughter, holding tightly onto his lover's coat. And in the spot where their attention seemed to be focused was enough room for one person to fit comfortably. A certain, braided person…

And just enough room to fuel his delusions.

Giving out a frustrated growl, he turned his head and buried his face into the safety of Heero's body. How impossible! No one could just disappear! No one who played such an integral part as big as a Gundam Pilot in the largest war in history could magically fade from all records and memories of the people who knew him. History couldn't be changed, pictures couldn't be magically altered, and memories couldn't be erased.

There had never been a Pilot of the 02 Gundam. The prototype had been blown up by Oz even before the production had been half complete. And there was no American Pilot to remember, because the braided bastard didn't exist!

* * *

A/N: I might as well post my disclaimer since I haven't been doing it so far.  
I do not own the GW boys, no matter how much I wish I did. This was written solely for entertainment purposes.

On another note, thank you so much to everyone who has been reading up until now! All your positive feedback has definitly played a hand in getting me to turn this "story for my own pleasure" into something to share with others. I really hope this lives up your expectations. R&R, and any suggestions on how to make the chapter or the story better are welcomed!  



	3. Chapter 3: Hope of a Fallen God

**Chapter 3  
Hope of a Fallen God  
**

* * *

Three am crept with a slow inebriation to its start, smelling of liquor and cigarettes in the Bar of Forgotten Dreams. Chris felt his eyes sliding shut, and gave a lethargic yawn as he shifted in his seat. Waiting for his friend to join him, he checked his watch for the tenth time in the past five minutes. No matter how hard he willed the second hand to move faster, it never did, thus dashing any hope of honing his imaginary telekinetic abilities.

"Where are you?" he grumbled, tapping his pen against the case notes he had been reviewing for the next day. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he stared blearily over the rim of his glasses to the papers. Gaudy country music filled his senses, increasing the intensity of the coming headache that threatened to floor the therapist, making him grimace in rage. If his friend didn't show up within the next ten minutes….

The thought of the threat was cut short as he heard the clanging cow bell signaling a new arrival. Laughter paused for a moment as the night owls of the 24 hour biker bar turned to view the new patron, Chris following suit. Unsure of whether to be disappointed or happy, he watched the medium sized man enter the smoky establishment.

Black eyes peered out from over dark sunglasses, worn at all hours, regardless of the light. They were piercing, predatorial. A gaze that in the nearly three thousand years the two had been friends, Chris could ever fully get used to. Long, chestnut bangs danced down across his temples, a few choppy strands gracing high cheekbones and causing the sharp angles of his face to stand out.

Around his wrists he wore a slave bracelet that branched into the man's favorite weapon—finger claws. Long and insidious looking, capable of slicing through steel, they adorned each of his digits and were decorated in diamonds and blood stone. They sent a clear message to any who saw him; this was not a man to be trifled with.

_Man?_ Chris asked himself, before giving a little shake to his head. _No, he was never a man. He'd always been a god._

Studying the patrons with those soulless, dark orbs, the new comer skimmed the group until he spotted Chris, and began the short walk with a confident stride, head bowing down as if attempting to go unnoticed. Coming to a stop before the table, he pulled out the distinctive pack of Camel cigarettes—Dark Mint, of course—and set one to dangle precariously between his lips.

"Sorry I'm late," he murmured, fishing around for his lighter. Instead of letting him continue, Chris pulled out his own Zippo, anxious to get this done with and get to bed.

"By an hour, Democritus. What were you doing?" the therapist demanded, pulling back a few escaped locks of trademark, bright orange hair. Democritus smirked, a familiar, Cheshire expression that pulled the corners of his lips up into something almost demonic. He flipped open the Zippo, holding the flame to the tip and letting the orange glow ignite the grin.

"Eating babies," he replied. From what the two had been through together, Chris had no doubts in his mind as to the truth of that statement.

"Classy," Chris grumbled, snagging the still open lighter and letting the flame press into his skin. Without care, he snapped it closed, pulling the burned area up to lick across it. Out of the corner of his eye he could see two drunken girls laughing to themselves as they watched the spectacle. Suit and tie, and someone resembling a Goth…or was that assassin? Well, Chris wanted to give them a show, and as he pulled his hand away from his mouth, he took special care to move it in a way where they could see his palm. Where the harsh burn had just been, now resided only smooth and flawless flesh. Soft gasps came from the two as they went quiet.

"And you call me a show off?" Kicking out the chair with his steel toed boot, Democritus flopped himself down in a less than graceful way, leaning back and hooking his hands behind his head. Chris rolled his eyes. After sitting here waiting for nearly an hour, being oogled and ogled by the scruffy looking patrons, he was allowed to have some fun, damn it!

"Why are we here, Demo? It's three in the morning and I work at seven," he sighed irritably.

"You're here because Mneme hates you," Democritus replied, before pausing, vision turning downcast for a moment. A grimace tugged at his lips as he ran the claws across the back of his neck, letting out a slow, but pensive breath. "And you're the only friend I've got. I really need your help this time…" Smiling softly in spite of his exhaustion, Chris gave a little sigh as righted his silver framed glasses.

"Then you're in luck," he stated. "I've definitely been making progress."

Democritus slid the dark sunglasses down, black eyes staring to him with a quiet intensity and curiosity. Moving forward in his seat, he attempted to peak at the papers set before his friend, only to have them pulled back.

"What's that?" Demo demanded, only to be thrown off by a charming smile from his friend.

"It's a case study of a certain Mr. Winner, of Winner Inc. I'd share it with you, but this isn't anything you need to know," Chris dismissively said. Pulling his briefcase onto the lap, he unhooked the front and refilled the papers, beginning to sift through. "It's mostly just the mandatory stuff I had the Preventer's head-shrinker fax over to me." An amused smirk formed on Demo's lips at the derogatory term Chris always used for psychiatrists. "But aside from that, I've got some good news. I've come up with a new theory as to our problem we have with a certain Mr. Chang." Interest perked, Democritus scoot closer in his chair, nearly sitting on the edge as he heard the familiar name.

"Go on…" he urged. Chris nodded, sliding out a file marked "W. Chang" on the top.

"Wufei, out of all of them, is the most accustomed to extreme losses. From his first wife," with this statement, he pulled out a picture of Meiran, lying it neatly so it was upright to Democritus. "To his clan," he produced a copy of the newspaper when L5 self destructed. "All of these, he's had to cope with, thus gaining a certain strength and endurance when it comes to loss, leaving him less vulnerable and much less willing than the other's to have his memories of someone as important as a friend—or a lover—be destroyed."

Excitement grew in Demo as he heard the words spoken, shifting slightly in his seat. He tugged nervously at the long braid dangling over the back of his chair, trailing the sharp claws through the chestnut strands. This was good news, he realized. This was _definitely_ good news.

"Add to his adaptation to loss, his stubborn pride. Never would he let someone mess with him, even without his knowledge, making him that much more impermeable to our dear beloved Mneme—goddess of memories," Chris continued, leaning forward. Green eyes shown with happiness into the black depths of his friend's.

"But I thought none of that mattered…Mneme could just destroy the memories no matter what you wanted," Demo whispered, fingers folding in front of him. Chris shook his vehemently, leaning more over the table so they could speak in quiet, confidential tones.

"She can't. See, I have this theory, and I think it might right. We have free will, no matter what happens, right?" he wondered. Demo nodded. "Well," Chris went on, "we react, and act, to the world, with how it acts to us. And how it acts to us what makes us how we act and react. These times can bring on pain, fear, or goodness, all of these being emotions we carry with us for forever. Some a water phobia from nearly dying, others, completely different things. Fears and terrors shape our actions—both bad and good. We do what we do out of familiarity, act how we act out of the same. That, therefore, is free will. Because we choose to act how we will based on our experiences.

"Without these experiences, we are naïve and nothing. While yes, there are always those with amnesia, they still maintain a certain aspect of themselves we sure as hell didn't have when we were little. Knowledge of language remain, as well as the imprinted results of our past. Perhaps not the exact _memories_, per se, but the impact they had. Everything we go through is permanently in us, just stored away, waiting to be pulled back up. Even if someone were to remove all active memories, the subconscious would still keep a hidden copy so that the body would forever know to react!" he exclaimed as he ended, looking up to him hopefully.

"So this means…?" Demo quirked a brow as he asked the question, black orbs looking blank. Somewhere in there, it was obvious Chris had lost him and the point he was trying to make.

"This means that no matter what, the curse isn't impossible. All it takes is to make one of them remember—" Cut off by Demo's raised hand, Chris immediately shut his mouth, tilting his head to the side curiously.

"Look, I can't hear this," Demo explained, once more pressing back into his seat. Holding himself on the back two legs, he shook his head. "I go back fully into Mneme's service tonight," he sighed, voice filled with regrets and sorrow. "I don't want to know how you plan to fix this…no matter what, she'll find out." Confusion graced across Chris' brow as he shook his head, not understanding. Demo sighed. "Do you trust the gods?" he demanded, frustrated.

"No!" Chris hissed his rage, eyes growing with the intensity of his hate. Demo laughed slightly, shaking his head.

"Would you ever trust a soulless slave of one?" Demo wondered, tone softening and face filling with regret. Leaning back, Chris grimaced. He hated to admit it, but Demo was right. During his own mortal life, thousands of years ago, Chris had spent his years hunting and killing those with no soul. And now…now his best friend since childhood was part of the mass. Had been part of the mass since they had met. Yet never before had Chris felt there was anything Demo couldn't be trusted with, albeit, nothing had ever come this close to actually freeing his dear friend.

Biting his lower lip, the therapist hesitated a moment, then reluctantly began to gather the papers and photo's, tucking them with utmost care into the folder.

"So I guess this means, for the time, we're strangers?" Pain lacerated the doctor's voice as he slid the information back into his case, unable to stand the twist to his gut. It would be hard, letting his friend suffer alone. They both knew, though, that it was necessary. If things were to be successful, Demo could have no part in his own liberation.

Giving a reluctant nod, he watched Democritus stand, the fallen god extinguishing the smoldering cigarette butt against the table, before pulling out a fresh one.

"Do what you need to do," he mumbled around the object. Chris' Zippo seemed to magically appear in his hand, lighting up the cigarette. Once more, the eerie glow was cast over his face, empty black eyes staring down to him. "But Chris?" Chris looked up.

"Yes, Demo?"

"Make sure you don't hurt Wufei in the process. I'd rather stay enslaved then see he and Heero suffer anymore." Tone soft, Democritus gave his friend a small, but painful smile, breaking the Irishman's heart all over again. Demo tossed him back the Zippo, and by the time Chris had grabbed it, the man had already started walking away, pointedly ignoring the whispers of the crowd.

It was obvious just how much the fallen Greek God, in his few short years of freedom for the war, had grown to love his companions. And Chris felt, without a doubt, that they would be the one's to finally release him.

Setting down the money to pay for the drinks, he finished gathering his things and he too, headed out, hope guiding his steps into the cold chill of night. Years ago, in the Clan he had grown up in, his father had held him on his knee and told him words of warning.

"Lad, don't you ever anger a god. Their wrath is fierce, and to defeat one is impossible."

A small smile formed on his lips. Thousand's of years later, he still recalled those words as he slid into the front seat of his SUV. Yes, to defeat a god was impossible, but then again…the Gundam pilots had made a career out of doing just that. The impossible.

* * *

Okay, this story (the chapters further ahead) are going somewhere totally different than I originally thought, and this chapter turned out completely different than it was written. I wish I could afford to just post all the chapters up right now that I have! But that would be a lot of reading, and I do have to write essays instead of transcribing all of this from some scribbles made on the side of my French notes to something actually readable. .

Oh, and fyi, I'm not introducing any new characters, other than the gods. So...consider that the only hint you're getting about who Chris and Demo are.

I hope you guys like this!  
And please, R&R? If there are any errors please tell me?

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing this.


	4. Chapter 4: Hushed Interim

**Chapter 4  
Hushed Interim**

* * *

To say a tornado had struck would be an understatement. Pushing his way through mangled dishtowels and broken plates, Quatre carefully navigated himself through the kitchen, to where Heero sat in a daze. Painstakingly folding the discarded cloths and rolling back up paper towels, Quatre could tell the Japanese man was pouring every ounce of himself into his work, attempting to peel his mind away from the earlier events. And for good reason, too. All of them had seen the previous break downs of the ex pilot of Shenlong. Had witnessed the way he crumpled from his careful self control to a shivering mound of grief, dropped to his knees and hugging himself, trying to ignore those around him. Wincing at the picture this produced in his head, Quatre kneeled down next to his friend, and began to aid in the slow process of reconstructing the once meticulous kitchen. 

"Wufei have another attack?" he gently asked, to which Heero just nodded as he gathered the folded rags and tucked them back onto a splintered shelf. Quatre started stacking the cookware and baking sheets. He didn't press, simply provided a silent comfort to his friend while waiting patiently for the Japanese man to speak. Months of weekly visits since Wufei's first psychotic break had made Heero and Quatre close friends, providing the Arabian the knowledge that it was best to wait for Heero to explain on his own time.

Time ticked by. Heero worked in silence, gathering his thoughts and registering everything that had happened. It was a slow process—working his way out of his own desperate depression to be able to explain without fear of crying. When he finally was halfway through putting the pieces of his shattered morning back in their place, he cleared his throat to test his own stability. Feeling safe to speak, he swallowed hard and looked to his friend.

"Sally had to come over this time," he explained, causing Quatre to give pause. Normally, they could calm the dragon down without interference. That Sally had to come made the blond realize—this time, it was far more serious.

"What happened?" he asked, voice thick with worry.

"She had to give him a shot of a dopamine and sedatives…he wouldn't calm down," Heero murmured with a worried sigh, resting back against the wall. Knees slid up into his chest, his body moving into an upright fetal position.

Dropping the dustpan from where he had frozen midway through sweeping up shattered plates, Quatre crawled the short distance to his friend to rest a comforting hand on his shoulder. The Japanese pilot just looked down.

"Where is he now?" Quatre wondered.

"She took him down to the hospital for observation," Heero replied, voice constricting, breathing labored and forcibly evened. "They say that he's getting worse, and she's trying to persuade me to sign him in to Hedgeling." Quatre winced. Hedgeling was a long term psychiatric hospital that specialized in veterans. Many who went in were never expected to ever be well enough to come out. Swallowing hard, the Arabian glanced down to floor, staring at the wreckage scattered across the room as the seriousness of the situation settled in. Pulling back, he shifted to sit beside him. Shoulders almost pressing together, Heero let the heat soothe him. He knew he wasn't alone.

"Do you think you will?" Quatre asked only to receive a slight shrug in answer. Heero rested his chin on his knees, staring off into the distance. Taking a deep breath, Quatre gathered the strength he knew Heero needed him to possess, and pressed on with the issue. "I mean, maybe you should," he offered brightly. "It's not as if Wufei isn't strong. Maybe he just needs a break. After all, with everything he's been through, he needs time to gather himself." Cerulean blue orbs lifted, stoicism masking the vulnerability in the Oriental man. Mind grasping desperately at the hope he heard in Quatre's voice, Heero sat up a bit straighter.

"You really think?" he wondered. Quatre nodded.

"We all have been through it," the Arabian whispered, reminding him of the days they, too, had felt the same as Wufei.

After the final battles had ended, when the initial shock of it all began to wear off, it suddenly became apparent that none of them were infallible when it came to mental disorders. When the first year of peace was celebrated, it seemed the calm provided the security they needed to finally break. The stress placed on their young minds and bodies had taken a toll, and they found themselves suddenly feeling deplete—robbed of their innocence, their lives, their friends. They all felt lost, destitute, forsaken, like something important was missing. Like something, or someone, had suddenly gone away.

Attributing it to the losses of innocence and loved ones during the war, they were treated, given rigorous therapy, and diagnosed recovered. Still, they each continued the biweekly meetings with the Preventer appointed Psychiatrist. All of them except for Wufei, who had refused treatment from the beginning. It was because of his pride that many believed he was falling. But somewhere in Quatre's heart, he didn't believe that.

"Wufei needs help, whether or not he's willing to take it," Quatre explained, convincing himself as much as he was Heero. Lightly biting his lower lip, Heero brushed his fingers through his hair, detangling the dark strands in the same way he wished he could detangle his mind. Stretching out a leg, it collided with a pans and Tupperware, sending them crashing. Heero winced. It was frightening to recall how loud they could be when thrown in fits of madness.

Sighing, he leaned his head back and looked up to the slowly spinning ceiling fan. Counting the three light bulbs repeatedly in his mind, he let his compulsive habit overwhelm and comfort him. Something he had developed during missions, Heero had always found the hard logic of numbers soothing—perfect, in that it was fact instead of opinion, and nothing could sway that three was always three. Calm began to slip through him. The Perfect Soldier, who had once been so strong, felt so weak and vulnerable inside. His first lover, his only lover, was being ripped from his arms by something so beyond belief—something so outside of the reasoning that Heero had safely cocooned himself in for years. And he was afraid it was catching. Because even as he knew that Wufei was the only person he had ever loved…

He almost knew for a fact that he wouldn't be the first to leave.

A cool hand on his cheek shook him of his reverie, and turning his attention back to Quatre, he forced his mind from his own pool of insanity he felt himself sinking in to. A gentle thumb moved, casting aside an escaped tear Heero didn't realize had formed. Sucking in a deep breath, he felt his resolve begin to break in the comforting gaze of his friend.

"He's in temporary care right now. Sally called earlier and said they've had to sedate him twice because of his fits. She told me she'll be faxing over the papers for me to sign him in…" He hesitated a moment, swallowing back the lump in his throat. "I wish he were right, Quatre," Heero suddenly burst out. This time, he could feel the mist forming in front of his eyes, and this time, he wasn't sure he cared. "Then I wouldn't feel like I'm losing him to someone who doesn't exist!" Quatre wrapped his arms around him suddenly, pulling him tight into his chest. Pressing in closer, Heero gratefully took the comfort, not sure if he could do this on his own anymore. More and more of his will began to shatter. The damn in his eyes broke, releasing his emotions in a sinful river down his cheeks, which he buried into Quatre's chest in an attempt to hide. How pitiful the perfect soldier had become. How much he too had changed.

"You're not losing him, Heero," Quatre assured, nails caressing over the back of his neck and head. He pressed a soft kiss to his crown. A mere six months ago, neither would have had this closeness. But a mere six months ago, Wufei had still seemed fine.

They both sat in silence, Heero's shoulders shaking in an attempt to suppress his sobs, fists tangled tightly against Quatre's back. Blinking back his own emotions, Quatre took a slow breath. The cruel delusions Wufei suffered from was in turn causing all of them to suffer as well. Quatre could only be thankful for the fact that at least Heero had finally learned to accept comfort, and in doing so, allowed Quatre to take comfort as well. The three remaining pilots needed each other. Needed the assurance that there was hope for their friend. Needed to know that they would never give up on him, or each other.

Staying like that, neither attempted to move until Heero's shakes had finally calmed, and he felt confident enough to show his face. Resting his cheek on his friend's chest, he stared at the last remains of what he prayed was Wufei's final tantrum in their house, letting the heartbeat of the Arabian soothe him. Licking his lips, he took a slow, experimental breath to make sure he wouldn't start crying again, before he dared to break the silence.

"I'll sign him in," Heero stated with resolve. Quatre looked down to him, resting his lips on his hair.

"You sure about it?" he asked, causing Heero to look up.

"What choice do I have?"

Quatre could only nod in agreement.

Off in the distance, muffled by walls and doors, a loud beep resounded, signaling an incoming fax in the office. Heero shifted off of him.

"The papers are here." He stated what both of them knew already. Moving to his feet, he ran his hand down his tired face, red cheeks and puffy eyes blinking wearily. "I'll be right back…stay here?"

Quatre nodded, knowing the unspoken part of that request. Heero didn't want to be left alone. He needed his friend right now.

"Of course," the Arabian promised, smiling softly.

When Heero finally left the room, Quatre could feel the mask crumble. Hunching forward, he buried his face in his hands and grit his teeth against the pain that filled his chest.

Despite his previous words, he felt his heart breaking at the idea of putting Wufei away. Something in him screamed with a feeling of betrayal, crying out to tell Heero to stop. He knew…he knew with everything in him that there had to be at least some validity to Wufei's claims. And he knew that if he were going to help Wufei, he had to find out. Fast.

* * *

All right, sorry if this chapter is kind of boring, and it's taken so long to update. I've kind of been falling behind in school, and as a result of stress, and plain stupidity, I now pulled a muscle. Thanks, Cartoon Network, for making your shows so they're that much more entertaining when your hanging half upside down on your bed. LOL! 

So all of that to say this is probably filled with some pretty bad errors, because I had to type this in while on some muscle relaxers, but since it's taken so long to update, I decided to post anyways. Please tell me what you think!

I'm already working on typing in chapter 5! .

And thanks to everyone who's commented!

Muses grab her by the sore arm  
Iko: COME slave, we must work on chapter 5!  
Sarin: But I got a essay to write! Whines  
Ino: Whips  
Sarin: Eeep! I'm going!


	5. Chapter 5: Confirming Suspicions

**Chapter 5  
Confirming Suspicions  
**

**

* * *

**_  
How much of life do I trust to chance  
When memories are easily thrown askance?  
Where is the logic when we've gone all wrong?  
Where goes our past when Memories Gone?_

To say he felt betrayed would be an understatement. Clenching at the leather cuffs holding his hands down, Wufei felt a whole new level of terror and rage rip through him. Once more, he had been written off. And by Heero of all people! Gritting his teeth at the insult, he let his head loll to the side, taking in the mint green walls and fluorescent lights of the Hedgeling hospital room. Staring at the motivational posters, the tacky floral wall paper lining the edge near the ceiling, and the IV drip releasing a steady stream of sedatives into his system, he found himself boiling in his hatred of his lover. No one, absolutely no one, had ever dared to be so crass towards him.

Biting down on his lip, the strong-willed dragon shook his mind of the stupor from the morphine, willing his limbs to try to escape. Arms and legs clenched, a low growl emerged from his throat as he started pulling with all his might. Self control was the only thing keeping him from panicking—after a few humiliating encounters with Trieze that had left the Chinese man tied to the bed and begging him to stop, he had grown an overwhelming fear of being restrained.

Unable to keep pulling for long, he collapsed, panting from the effort. He had to keep fighting. He had to break free.

_For what?_ His mind questioned him ruthlessly. _You're gone, Wufei. Give up._ Wincing, he closed his eyes as he tried to collect his thoughts. Logic told him he really had lost it, but something else knew otherwise. Something in his very make up screamed that an integral part of him had been removed, stolen. Blocked. And he hated Heero for refusing to believe him.

Wincing, he felt a pounding begin in his skull. As per usual when he began to think on the violet eyes that haunted him, a migraine began forming, causing his neck to spasm and ears to feel like they would bleed. He wanted nothing more then to lay there or cry out for Heero to help nurse it away…but Heero had locked him up here.

Heero had sent him here to die.

Brow furrowing, his lip pulled back in an indignant snarl.

"Fight, you baka!" he hissed to himself as his muscles tried to liquefy and go with the strong relaxant. But for the life of him, he couldn't find the energy needed to fight back. He wanted to curl up and grab his head, to nurse his pain away, but he couldn't move.

"_Poor baby…it hurts so bad, doesn't it?"_ Wufei's eyes bolted open, heart skipping a beat. Swallowing back a growing lump in his throat, his body began to shake, and he could hear the heart monitor's beep begin to speed up. The sound of Trieze's voice resonated in the room, causing his blood to run cold. _"You're so pretty when you cry, my dragon,"_ it purred seductively into his ear, confusing him as to the source. Was it in his head? _"The more you fight against me, the more I fall in love with you…"_

Yup, that was it. The barrier on his control was broken, and adrenaline provided that extra pick-me-up he needed to fight.

Out in the hallway, the nursing staff all froze at the sound of the determined, yet petrified scream that came from behind the door, bringing them to a stand still for a moment before the organized chaos broke loose. Sally and the head doctor, who had been speaking about possible treatment plans a moment before, took off running the short distance from the desk to the glass walled observation room he had been put in.

They made it in time to see a group of six women and two men holding down the thrashing boy as he screamed rather colorful insults in Mandarin. Just from her closeness with him, Sally could make out the derogatory names he was using towards the women, and a few made her flush in embarrassment, even as she rushed to his side. She opened her mouth to give out orders, but was immediately cutoff by a green eyed glare. The doctor pushed aside the hands holding the dragon down, shoving a few back crudely.

"Get off him!" he shouted. Reluctantly backing up, they gave him the room he needed, and the doctor leaned forward, lips pressing near his ear. A soft whisper was all it took, and Sally watched in amazement as the Chinese pilot seemed to suddenly calm in his tantrum. Black orbs turned from crazed to languid—coherent—if a little surprised, as he slowly looked to the doctor.

Wufei was shocked, but calmed, as he studied the man who was threatening to unlock the gateway of memories. And as the red headed man ushered off the others in the room, including Sally, he could still hear the statement bouncing around in his head.

"My name is Chris, but you can call me Solo. And I believe you. He existed…and his name was Duo Maxwell…"

**_oOoOo_**

Once violet, now black eyes, flashed as he watched events from a scrying pool, located in his mother's private hall on Mount Olympus. Cheshire grin forming on his lips, Duo felt his heart thump with hope and joy.

"That's it Wuffers...just remember me," he whispered past the tears squeezing his throat. "Remember me, and maybe I can finally come home..."

* * *

The only thing I own out of all of this is the poem that starts this chapter off. It's copywritten to me, and it is mine, mine alone, bwahahahahahahaha (if you like the poem, you can find that, and more of my works on my homepage. 

Oh, and I know this is kind of early, but blame the muses. THEY MADE ME DO IT!

Well, I'm off to go practice for my tests! Hopefully, this should start to be updated pretty regularly...every three to four days or so.


	6. Chapter 6: In the Hall of Olympus

**Chapter 6  
In The Hall of Olympus  
**

* * *

Duo cringed, grabbing his temples as the shouting of his father broke past the marble walls to resonate in the empty lounge room of Aphrodite. Pressing down hard, he gave a slight jump as the stone doors slammed open, Ares dark aura piercing the normal beauty and serenity of the hall. 

"I thought Mneme was going to let you go, Democritus!" he growled, red eyes glittering with his rage, black hair floating around him on the waves of energy his body released. Glancing over to him, Duo looked his father up and down, onyx orbs coming to rest on the metal spiked boots that dug into the soft stone of the floor. A slight smirk graced his lips as he languidly quirked a laughing brow. "_What_ are you smiling at?" Ares demanded, jaw twitching. Unable to stand still any longer, he began his normal agitated pacing back and forth from the chaise lounge to the tropical flowers. "My own son, a slave!" he ranted dramatically, shaking his head, hand moving out in front of him as if giving some Shakespearean monologue. "No child of mine should _ever_ be a slave! What is your mother going to think?" he bellowed, golden statuettes to shaking with the intensity of his yells.

"Probably that you're a jackass for fucking up her floor again," Duo replied with a sigh. Giving one last, longing look to his beloved Dragon beginning to doze on the hospital bed, he reluctantly cleared the pool of the image and flopped down on the pile of down pillows beside it. Tugging slightly at the silver collar latched around the smooth pillar of his throat, he ignored his fathers growl as best he could. Ares was hot headed in the best of times and a raving lunatic in the…well…in the second best of times. Not that this wasn't a bad situation that warranted alarm. But it had been a bad situation since he had gotten into it thousands of years ago in the golden age of the Ancient Greek Empire. It irked him that neither his mother nor his father had cared much, until when they finally called on him—the should be feared God of Death—to fight in a war Ares was waging, and Mneme refused to let him go for their services. It was then that his enslavement became a "travesty". An "injustice". When Duo had been unable to perform as his father's little hand puppet.

The rant had been original the first few times, too. Perhaps even a little flattering. When Duo had heard it, he could almost convince himself that his parents cared, and could actually break the curse that Hades had put on him for daring to touch one of his sacrifices. But now? Now it was just damned annoying. All the old bastard _ever_ did was nag, nag, nag. Bitch, bitch, bitch.

"Do you _not_ realize the gravity of this situation?" Ares demanded. Oh, oh! There was the death glare! Duo smirked. It was a look that could have given even Heero a heart attack, but Duo wasn't phased. Nothing his father did impressed him much anymore.

"Well, Dad, I'm not floating, am I?" he deadpanned, warranting another enraged growl from the large warrior.

Ares opened his mouth to give the usual lecture about how Duo should respect him more, but was cut off by a loud smack that resonated through out the room, causing the black haired mans head to jerk forward in surprise. Demeanor immediately shrinking, he cringed away from where the invisible hit had come from, covering his head like a timid puppy who had been beaten.

Golden and white mist swirled in the spot he had just been standing in, slowly revealing the gorgeous form of Aphrodite. She stood before her ex lover, long, golden blond hair trailing in tight curls around her flawless features. Blue eyes burning with deep seated rage, her fiery stare drilled into the man in front of her with a hate that couldn't be matched. Before any man or army, Ares could rule supreme. But upon facing the wrath of any angry woman, he was as clueless and confounded as a preschooler in calculus. After all—an angry enemey can be killed. An angry woman has to be sated.

Duo watched with a snicker, hooking his hands behind his head. He had seen this show a million times—each time he was to return to Mneme, the same argument and rant occurred between his parents. Perhaps the words changed. Insults became more colorful as the vocabulary expanded and imagination increased. But the general content was always the same, and always entertaining. Aphrodite's breasts rose and fell with anger, fists clenching and knuckles white as she stared at her ex husband with a gaze so intense, Duo was sure it could melt Antartica.

"How many times do I have to tell you," she ground out, enunciating each word slowly through grit teeth. "No…spiked…shoes…on…the…_marble_!" Now that was a roar that could make even Zeus want to cry. An angry Goddess was nothing to trifle with. Unfortunately, Ares wasn't the type to be able to tell the difference between trifling and not trifling, which was the exact reason that had led to their divorce. Grabbing one of the pillows, Duo bit down on it viciously to stop himself from bursting out with laughter.

"But you can fix it by snapping!" Ares half accused, half whined. It was true. Fixing something in Olympus, for a god, was as easy as snapping your fingers. But that didn't make the response anymore acceptable to an enraged woman.

"I can also fix it by filling the cracks with your blood that will spill after I fix _you_ with a scalpel!" she hissed, making a pointed thrust towards his crotch with her fist. Ares looked at her confused.

"But my blood isn't white…and I doubt it has the right consistency to fill the cracks…" he stated, the threat completely lost on him. Aphrodite stared in shock at the dense statement, once more recalling exactly why she refused to ever date a man who took brawn to be more valuable than brain. Biting harder on the pillow, Duo rolled to his side as his body was wracked with the suppressed giggles. God, his parents were so funny!

"Get out, Air. You're giving me a migraine," she sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat. There really was no use in having a battle of the wits when the other person didn't even know what the word "wits" meant. Confused, Ares stared at her curiously.

"But—"

"LEAVE!" she screamed, cutting off his feeble protest. Not wanting to give her a chance to attack him as she had done many times before (and also not wanting to risk the rage of Zeus if he fought back again), Ares made good on the command and disappeared in the swirl of black smoke, leaving Duo and his mother alone in the stale air of the palace.

Only then did Duo finally trust himself a little to calm his roaring laughs to overwhelming chuckles, letting them spill out of his throat as he wiped the tears from his eyes. Looking over to him with a loving gaze, his mother's tired expression became soft at the comforting site of her child. Walking over to him, she kneeled down by his curled up form as he gasped for air around the hiccups the joyous laughter had caused.

"I only thank Zeus that you turned out smarter than him," she sighed, reaching out to stroke her long fingers through his hair.

"Only by the Grace of Zeus, say I," Duo replied as he looked up, cheeks still red and grin still large as he scooted over to allow her more room next to him on the cushions. Taking the invitation, she moved to join him, lying beside him and wrapping a soothing arm around his chest. "How is my child?" she asked gently, placing a warm kiss on his cheek. Duo visibly relaxed, rolling into his mother's arms and curling up against her breasts.

"I miss my lovers," he replied sadly, all humor leaving him. Wistfully, he recalled the way Heero and Wufei felt wrapped him and each other at night, the memory of their peaceful expressions sending a stab of pain through his heart. Aphrodite scratched the back of his neck in a soothing touch.

"I know," she replied, nuzzling her cheek against the top of his head. Sighing, Duo snuggled deeper into her, grateful that the curse had no way to totally affect his parents. Sure, they really couldn't help him out or anything, but they could remember him and love him, and no matter how annoying they could be, was grateful for that small miracle. "Has Mneme been treating you right?" she asked gently. Duo felt himself wince inside, but managed to hide his reaction. Instead, he nodded.

"She really doesn't treat me wrong. She never has," he lied, looking up to her. It wasn't Mneme who had cursed him. Despite the fact that the Goddess of memory was currently his owner, it was Hades who had cursed him to this horrid existence. Though Mneme could have done something more to help him out of it, such as letting a mortal remember him so they could actually help to get him free. She was the only deity who could interfere without making it worse, though she did seem to take a sadistic enjoyment in his captivity. His parents didn't know that. He refused to be the cause of a war between the gods.

Instead, his parents had struck a deal with her. Whenever they needed him to be involved in an Earthly war, they would provide someone in his place to do her bidding until the war had ceased for the exact period of one year and six months. Upon that time, he would be allowed to say his final goodbye's to his parents, and the memory of him and his involvement would be wiped away, and he would once more return to his servitude as her complete and utter slave. Normally, he never tried to go against it, but never before during his time on Earth had he fallen in love.

To leave Heero and Wufei had torn him up inside, and since the day he had first realized the depth of his own emotions, he had started devising a plan to get free. So he called upon his old friend, Solo, the high priest to the God Loki, to help him out. The free-thinking, strong willed therapist seemed impervious to all attacks any god or mortal could place, and he sometimes wondered if it was because of his status with Loki, or if it was true that Solo actually had the blood of Zeus' father in him. After all, Chaos could never be reigned in or manipulated. It was why Democritus, under the pseudonym of Duo Maxwell, had begged his life long friend for help.

A twinge cut off his train of thoughts, the annoying buzzing beginning in his collar and spreading down his body. The silent electrical current trailing from the metal collar sent a cold chill down his spine, and he knew he had to get back to his Mistress before she made it painful. Heart dropping a little, Duo hugged his mom tighter, cursing Mneme for always calling on him whenever they were spending time together.

"I have to go," he said painfully, arms squeezing desperately. She responded in like, holding him close to her for as long as she dared, knowing how vicious Mneme could be if kept waiting.

Letting him go, the two exchanged quick goodbyes, before Duo took his leave.

_ooo_

Aphrodite swallowed hard as her son left, dragging her thumb across her lips. Democritus thought that he could hide the beatings and the abuse, but she knew her son and she knew Mneme. Death and memories were volatile combinations.

"Eros," she called out, glancing over her shoulder as she called to her youngest son. Nothing seemed to happen, but she could feel his presence slowly invade the air around her, letting her know that he had heard and he was listening. "Go leave the evidence for Jehova's Oracle, and make sure the General doesn't see you." Purple sparked in the air--his sign of understanding and affirmation of orders, before the energy seemed to swirl and retract like a rolling fog in reverse. Slight goosebumps formed on her arms at the sensation of her sons spirit brushing her skin as he disappeared, and she glanced over to her scrying pool. She moved to stand beside it, staring down into the glossy reflection of herself in the calm water. Waving long fingers over the surface, she summoned back up the location that was last seen and felt her heart clench.

"For your sake, Democritus," she murmured, studying the image of the lost, orphaned Dragon, "pray you are free before we are all punished for this..."

* * *

All right! So there's some clue as to why Duo is how he is, and who and what he is...but the who and what should be pretty obvious.

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! As per usual, I own none of the Gundam Boys (except maybe in bed O.o) and, well...I don't think I'd want to own any of the Gods. They get annoying--what, with all that pacing on the marble in Ares Stilletos...

Okay, so they're not exactly high heels, just really spikey boots, but whatever. hehe!


	7. Chapter 7: In the Mist of Memories

_A/N: I do not own Gundam Wing, nor do I own Zarek. Zarek is not my own character, but is instead property of Sherrilyn Kenyon and the Dark-Hunter Series. You do not need any knowledge of those books to understand this chapter, though._

**Chapter 7**

**In The Mist of Memories**

_

* * *

I hate it here,_ Duo thought to himself as he appeared in the shallow mists and hazy plain of purgatory that was dedicated to the Goddess of Memories. It was a lonely place, cold and detached, where every other step threatened to put you into the horrible memories she collected like most people collected trinkets. It was the worst place he could be, where all the good and bad memories of gods and men alike floated aimlessly across the landscape. The closer you got towards Mneme's temple, the more and more horrible and painful they became. She had a strange fetish for the agony of others—most likely because she could feel nothing herself.

Watching his steps, he felt his way through the waist deep fog, being careful to feel for and avoid the empty slight, frozen blue patches that indicated the roiling recollections of others. Dancing his way through, he could feel the tell-tell goose bumps that signified when one was too close. Not all could be fully avoided, and each time he even slightly brushed against one, his body would jerk as if hit, and he would attempt to jump his way out of it. By the time he approached the lone, Greek style white building standing in stark contrast to the washed out, black sky, he was biting the inside of his cheek bloody in an attempt to block out the horrors he had seen.

The doors were already open, as if anticipating his arrival. Mneme, the beautiful woman, was lying back across her chaise lounge with a bored but dreamy look. One hand was splayed languidly across her own breasts, the other resting lifelessly beside her head.

Pure white eyes followed his approach with a predatory intensity, brows barely furrowing in displeasure as he drew close.

"You're late," she breathed, her trademark, eerie, three-toned voice filling up the room and echoing lazily off the walls. Duo shivered in spite of himself, and forced himself the rest of the way to her side

"If you would just let me transport directly here," he began, but a quick flick of her wrist cut him off, effectively—and literally—removing all abilities to speak until she deemed him worthy once again. A cold chill trailed down his spine as he noted her thumb moving across her nipple, a long fang emerging to bite in anticipation on her lip.

"I don't want to hear excuses…" she hissed, cruel eyes studying him hungrily. "Kneel, my disobedient slave," she murmured, rolling onto one side to prop herself up on an arm. Duo complied. He knew better than to fight back by now—had the whip wounds to show what disobedience would cause. Icy fingers slid across his jaw, trailing down over his neck and causing paper thin lacerations to form where her nails touched. The sting would have once brought tears to his eyes as a boy, but now they were almost comforting. A gentle touch from a woman who knew no kindness.

Moving the frigid digits to his chest, she snagged his shirt with her pinky, giving a displeased tug.

"You dress inappropriately," she stated, indicating the black leather he had worn the night before to meet Solo. He shook his head, opening his mouth to beg his mistress for forgiveness, to only have silence. Idly, he wondered whether she would let him talk or not again…sometimes, she kept him mute for centuries.

The displeasure at his clothing choice was easily cured, as she willed the garments into nothingness, leaving him prone and naked by the side of his owner. Swallowing hard, he felt her snowy, winter gaze make circles over him. Should she ever want to take his memories and emotions normally—to feel the world and passion he felt through his eyes—he wouldn't have minded. Being unable to experience emotion, he could understand why Mneme would crave someone to make her feel something other than the constant numbness she was cursed to. He would have gladly shared them and himself, even if it meant having his own experiences dulled.

Instead, she stole them from him. Made him feel the emptiness that she did. Ripped from him his memories, his hopes, his ambitions, his dreams. Everything that made him, him. Afterwards, he would still know them, still realize that they were there, but the feeling would be gone. His memories would be like pictures he had no relation to. Inside, he would be cold. Sometimes, it took him only a few days to recover, other times, centuries. But now? Now, his heart screamed at the idea of her being able to steal his love of Heero and Wufei from him. Even if they didn't remember him, it was all he had left.

His heart screamed with agony, but he could make no sound. Keeping calm and still, he stared at her, trying to mask the agony in his heart. A sadistic smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she took in a giddy breath. Pressing her hand over his heart, she slowly began to draw on what he had been through during the war.

"Tell me, slave…? Does it hurt to know that those who caused you damnation, now once again could care less on where you are?" she wondered, calling up images of Heero and Wufei. Duo just swallowed, attempting to close his eyes, only to find himself paralyzed. Laughing harshly, she shifted to lie back again, drawing him up on her bed by waving her finger in a "come hither" motion, long thighs spreading.

"Or do you really think that you're little plan will work?" Eyes going wide, he looked at her in shock. She hadn't had time to get to that part in his memories, so there should have been no way for her to know. He wanted to demand how, but he could do nothing other than follow her will as she pulled his body between her legs. Insides rolling with disgust, and he wished he could have cried out loud the way his soul was screaming inside. More than anything, he wanted to feel Wufei's arms around him, or see Heero's strong expression as he called him an idiot and told him everything would be okay. Instead, he was left staring down at Mneme's callous smile as she wrapped long, frozen thighs around his waist.

"Do not worry, little boy. You are my pain toy. And nothing will ever change that." With that, she drew him into her body, and threw herself into his mind, forcing him to relive everything that had happened since they had last seen one another.

A single tear broke through his eyes, while the rest of him moved as her silent, pliant toy.

_**oOoOo**_

Blinking wearily, Heero slowly opened tired eyes, only to be greeted with pure nothingness. Empty blackness surrounded him, leaving him feeling oddly cold and alone. Scrunching his brow, he felt an odd wave of dizziness overcome him as he tried to gather his bearings in this cold, lonely place.

_Where am I?_ he thought curiously. The last thing he remembered was lying down, wishing Wufei were with him. It was the first time in a long time that he had spent a night away from his lover, and he had dreaded the thought of a lonely bed, or not having his heart beat to lull him into happy dreams. _That must be it,_ he realized, trying to shake off the grogginess that dulled his senses. _This must be a dream…_ A hint of relief washed through him. Giving out a small sigh, he went to reach up to brush a strand of ruffled hair from his face…

…only to realize he couldn't move.

Eyes widening as a strange fear seized him, he jerked his body hard, trying to free himself from the hold on him, only to find freedom seemed impossible. _What the…?_ Pressing forward again, he tried to lift an arm or move in some way, but the more he struggled, the tighter the choke hold on his body seemed to get. He gave a nervous swallow. This had to be a nightmare…only a nightmare…

"HEERO!" The scream tore through the painful slice, causing him to jump in surprise. Chills trickled down his spine as the word echoed off invisible walls. "Please…dear Zeus, I don't want to hurt anymore," it sobbed. Somehow, the plea sounded familiar, arousing feelings so fiercely protective, he thought he would surely be shredded apart by their intensity. The fight against his invisible bonds suddenly became violent, fueled only by the agonizing sobs that grew louder by the moment.

"No more," it begged. "Just let me die…please…I'd rather die than forget…"

Heero tried to call out—to yell that he heard. That the victim wasn't alone. But every sound he made was swallowed by the oppressive space around him. Heart thumping, his determination only grew, every muscle bunching as a mute, but tenacious growl ripped through his throat. "Heero…" The voice was fading, and the Japanese pilot's eyes flickered around as best he could, hearing the ragged breathing that was filled with tears and pain. As he continued to fight, he searched through the oblivion, trying spot the source, wanting to put a face to the voice that drove his head and heart into turmoil. Slowly, it faded, until slightly hiccups were only heard. Distant at best, he had to struggle to make them out.

Panting from the intensity of his own struggle, he let himself relax a moment, trying to gather his strength and nurse the soreness forming in his body. Still, he continued to search for the source, peering off where the noises had previously come from.

"Stare into the abyss too long, and the abyss will stare into you…" Heero jumped at the words, spoken in a threatening, sensual purr in his ear. Bristling, Heero attempted to turn and see the voice, yet still remained immobile. Every hair stood on end as he realized his own vulnerability. Loud footsteps echoed, like thick soled boots on a metal floor, as the speaker moved to stand before him.

Standing at six foot three, the man was all muscle and threat. Cold blue eyes were filled with a cruel humor, peering out through rustled black hair that reminded Heero of Wufei's after they had sex. A close trimmed goatee was curled slightly at the tip, twitching as the man lightly gnawed his lower lip with a long, vicious fang. Leather pants encases long legs, and a black silk shirt hung open, to show the eight pack abs and nipple piercings. Silver earring glinting, the man tilted his head to the side curiously at the rage filled expression on Heero's face.

"You're probably wondering who I am…?" the man asked curiously, giving him a cold smirk. Heero growled, and was surprised to find that the sound actually carried this time. The man snickered. "My name is Zarek," he stated coolly, "but you can call me Dickhead. It's a common nickname." Heero blinked his surprise, fear faltering a moment at the statement. Dickhead…?

His thoughts were cut off as whimpering returned, whispering Heero's voice. Growling again, Heero struggled to break free.

"Where am I?" he hissed, grateful now that he could be heard. Zarek quirked a bemused brow.

"We're in _your_ mind," he deadpanned, staring at him drolly as if it should be obvious.

"Then why can't I move?" Heero ground out, punctuation each word with a snarl. Zarek shook his head. For once, the man was actually impressed. If only the other Hunter's could see this boy, they'd finally meet someone who could out snarl Zarek himself. Amused at the prospect, probably more than he should be, the Roman took a step back, glancing towards where the crying was coming from.

"That's your doing," he stated, turning to look back to the Japanese man. "You let them bind you, and condemn the Dragon for fighting back. As you did when you let them mold you into the perfect soldier, you now let the gods mold you into their perfect little play toy. You let them use you for their sick idea of punishment…and in the process…" A scream ripped through the darkness, and Zarek looked towards it, face wincing visibly. "In the process, you just move on. You're too egotistical to see the world for what it is."

"What are you talking about? Who is that?" Heero demanded, wanting to choke the man from frustration. What was he talking about? Brow lifting again, the Roman slightly stuck his tongue out, dragging a tongue ring across his upper front teeth as he watched him thoughtfully a moment.

"I can't answer that for you," he finally replied. "That would be breaking the rules, and would only get him hurt worse."

"What rules?" Heero balanced the words out, trying not to scream. God, this guy was frustrating.

Instead of answering, Zarek ignored the question. Part of the Roman wanted to kill Zeus for letting these types of things stand, but part of him also got a weird kick out of being oracle for a day. "If you want to see him, and if you want to go to him, you have to come to terms with who he is," Zarek told him. Cerulean blue orbs narrowed on him as Heero stopped his fighting, forcing his breathing to be steady.

"How do I do that?" he ground out emphatically. Sighing slightly, Zarek turned his head up and looked to him from the corner of his eye.

"As my wife would say 'For once in your existence, can you at least admit you were wrong?'" A soft, calm smile stole Zarek's features for a moment as he reflected on her, before his face hardened once again, returning to the cocky expression it normally held. "You've made a crucial mistake in doubting the one person you never should have. Realize that…and you might be able to save yourselves yet." Brows furrowing, Heero watched him quizzically.

"Why are you doing this?" he demanded. "Are you the one who's hurting him?" Which "him" he was talking about, Heero didn't know. Whether it be the voice, or Wufei, he couldn't decide. Zarek shook his head, the air about him turning sincere.

"Trust me…I, of all people, don't agree with this. I know what it's like for the gods to be against you, Yuy, and I of all people know what it's like to be a slave to them as well…" His eyes became distant, as if recalling painfully memories, a slight snarl pulling up the corners of his lips. "I've done all I can…good luck."

With that, Heero was once again left alone.

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Sorry it's taken so long to get this chapter out. Hope all of you don't mind. I wanted to have the part with Heero completed, but decided against it. Also, I need to do some major touch ups on this, but I figured this was better than nothing, and I should be reposting this fully completed soon! 

As I said before. This is taking a completely different turn than what I thought would happen, so I'm having to re write some of the chapters as I go. I hope you all don't mind, and I hope that you enjoy!


	8. Chapter 8: Clue for Jehova's Oracle

**Chapter 8  
Clue for Jehova's Oracle**

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**

Heero awoke with a groan, hands grasping at his face as the harsh morning light slanted through the curtains to hit across his eyes. Wincing against the pounding in his temples, he idly wondered if this was what Wufei felt when he woke up sick and aching after a restless sleep of nightmares and confusing dreams. Taking in a slow breath, he moved to sit up straight, nearly whimpering at the intensity of his migraine. Over a week had passed since Wufei had been institutionalized, and every night, Heero found himself tossing and turning from the odd images that filled his head and left him in a cold sweat, tangled in the bed sheets. Dreams of being left immobile, hearing the soft whimpering that grew quieter and weaker each night, until all that could be heard was the desperate hiccupping and ragged breaths that echoed through out the bleak, black landscape. Every now and then, an odd form would join him. Someone who's name started with a Z? But he never recalled much more than that.

Slowly standing, he exhaled with a slow and steady breath, trying to gather his bearings. He attempted to step forward, only to feel the floor tilting and slipping, and he grasped desperately onto the bedpost to stop from falling. Exhaustion tore through him, and he stumbled back onto the bed, grapping his temples as his skull thumped against the pillow. Like bolts of lightening, agony threaded through his skull and blurred out his vision.

"K'so!" he hissed, rolling onto his back. If this got any worse, he doubted he would even be able to function anymore! He needed to speak with Sally and get something for his head….

Not trusting himself to move, he forced his body to relax as the world began to right itself. Shifting a little, he tried to take some of the weight off his neck and keep his breath from hitching at the little explosions of pain that erupted whenever he twitched. This was like nothing he had encountered during his time as the perfect soldier or even after. He even dared to say he preferred the pain of self destructing over this. Idly, his mind trailed back to the many times when Wufei would curl up in a fetal position on the bed, hands pressing down over his ears as he repeated like a mantra, "My ears are going to bleed…k'so, it hurts! It hurts!" Was this what Wufei had been talking about?

It did feel as if his ears would bleed. His vision was hazy around the edges, and his ears were ringing at a shrill intensity. But why would he now feel this pain when Wufei was gone? Was his sympathetic mind dropping him into the same insanity of Wufei, in hopes to someday join him? Closing his eyes, he tried to banish the thought and the fear of being locked up with his lover, never to see the light of day. Instead, he needed to focus on something else, something real. Grabbing at the photograph beside the bed, he held it up in front of himself and studied the faces there. He, Wufei, Trowa, and Quatre, stood together, all looking amused, studying a blank space. Before, he had always found it weird. His memories of that night were hazy, but according to some of the media coverage, each had been drinking superfluously, and had been in great spirits. Odd warmth flooded his stomach, as if his subconscious recalled something comforting and happy from the picture that his mind's eye didn't grasp.

Running his thumb over it, he found his gaze settling on the blank spot, studying it closely. Instincts seemed to nudge him forward, filling him with an odd type of curiosity. Tilting his head to the side gently, so as to not cause the migraine to act up anymore, he began to survey the picture with an amused scrutiny like a child playing "What's wrong with this picture?" At first, he couldn't exactly grasp the hints that were being presented. All he saw were the four of them, and in the background, Dorothy and Relena looking shocked towards them. Hilde was approaching from the corner, holding a tray with six glasses of wine. She had left for a moment to get them all one, and had missed out on some horrible joke that was rather offensive. There was a glass for her, a glass for Heero, one for Wufei, Trowa, and Quatre, and a final for…for…

...someone was missing.

White hot sparks blurred his vision, the picture dropping from his hand as he cried out his agony, grabbing onto his face and pressing down hard. It felt as if his skull was going to shatter into a million pieces. Hissing his pain, the ringing in his ears intensified, and he felt as if his ear drums would burst at any moment. Rolling onto his side, he curled up, shielding himself from all light and noise as tears trailed a searing path down his cheeks. What was wrong with him? What was going on?

Hiding his eyes in his pillow, he sought out the darkness it should have offered, but instead of being greeted by the blackness that normally rested in his mind, he saw a set of violet eyes. And above the ringing in his ears, a familiar voice whispered sweetly in his ear, asking a question he couldn't answer.

_Hey, Heero? Where do memories go when they die?_

**_oOoOo_**

"Where do memories go when they die?"

A cold chill went down Quatre's spine as he heard the question pierce his hazy, nervous thoughts. Something about it seemed so timely, so frightening, that it made his insides shake.

"Uncle Quatre?" the voice called again. The blond Arabian slowly lifted eyes to stare into Kasha's. His nine-year-old niece stared up to him as her fingers played across the picture frame she held in her hand. It was of Quatre, Kasha's mom, and their dad, all gathered together like the happy little family they had been before the war.

"What do you mean?" he wondered, slowly closing the laptop he had been using. Brown eyes turned to watch the racing game that Anil, Kasha's younger brother, and Trowa, were playing on the large screen TV.

"Well, like when you forget stuff and you can't remember, no matter how hard you try…or you just forget that you knew it all together. Where do those memories go? Do they die?" she wondered innocently. Quatre leaned back at the weight of the question that seemed to parallel his own, tormented thoughts, biting nervously on the inside of his cheeks.

"I don't think we ever really forget anything," he answered slowly, looking over to the sweet child who watched him with a hope-filled, chocolate gaze. "I think the memories are always with us…just very distant. Tucked into the back of our minds, waiting for something to trigger them." He felt weird saying all of this, as trying to convince himself more than he was trying to convince the girl. Not that he didn't believe what he was saying. It was impossible for memories to die. Right? Which was why if Wufei was right, and he _had_ known the person who was supposed to be the 02 pilot, some horrible event might have happened that caused him to repress it. Looking down to his laptop, he ran his fingers over the closed case, mind swimming with all the information he had received. For the past week, he had done nothing but research the Gundam Deathscythe, finding all the information he could on it and the pilot who should have been.

According to all the documentation, the planned pilot of 02 had been shot down before it had even been completed. On the same day the pilot had arrived, it was said that two Alliance battalions, having recently received news of a possible rebellion from Oz, had gotten word of the suit. Thinking it was an Oz run operation, they had bombed it, destroying it a mere week before operation Meteor had begun. Everyone but the scientist had died, but there was one thing that didn't sit right.

No one had any record or information on who the pilot should have been. And if G had survived…was it possible the pilot had as well? And if so, where was he? Who was he? And why was Wufei going insane over all of this? What had that pilot done to him?

"Uncle Quatre?" Quatre was snapped from his thoughts as his attention returned to Kasha. The small girl held a hand to his face, her brown eyes worried. "Are you okay?" she wondered sweetly, voice small and laced with worry. Quatre nodded, giving a reassuring smile he didn't feel.

"I'm fine," he promised, putting the laptop down on the table. "I'm going to get something to drink." Excusing himself, the Arabian quickly exited the room and the overwhelming noise of video games and haunting questions. The kitchen while more quiet, still echoed distantly with the computerized backfire from the video game, causing his skin to crawl and his body to shudder. He needed silence to clear his thoughts. He would be of no help to anyone in this condition. Going to the large double doors that led outback, he forced them open and gladly pushed his way out into the warmth of the afternoon sun. Dark clouds speckled the sky, dancing their ominous way across the otherwise perfect blue, promising a storm that he felt certain would come. Everything felt so ethereal, he realized, taking a deep breath of the clean, damp air, letting it cleanse his mind. Something about Wufei's most recent snap left him feeling dirty, as if he were betraying his one and only best friend. He knew Wufei believed in it. That had to be the reason why he felt this way. The fact that this insane belief in the nonexistent pilot meant so much to Wufei must be making him want it to be real…for Wufei's sake.

But he knew he was lying to himself. Deep down, something in him too believed in what Wufei said. Because something recalled a laughing voice. A chestnut braid. A warm smile. And something in him plagued his dreams with visions of those eyes…burning and purple, passionate and heated, long before Wufei had ever had even mentioned it.

Why he never said anything, he didn't know. Fear was a constant companion, doggedly trailing in the wake of confusion these odd memories brought. Not fear of being called crazy. But another fear. A fear that perhaps, whatever had gotten to the pilot of Deathscythe would get to him, and soon Trowa would be considered insane for having such vivid memories of the nonexistent "fourth" pilot.

"You're starting to sound like a nut job," he grumbled, chastising himself. As if chastising himself out loud really made him that much saner… He knew he needed to think rationally, but his head was in chaos and had, apparently, forgotten how to function or act like a normal human being. So he relinquished control to his heart, letting it guide him down the small, cobblestone walkway, into the overgrown forest-like garden.

He meandered with a seemingly aimless grace through the weeping willow trees and hundreds of flowers he could never hope to know. Letting his mind go blank, he enjoyed the quiet state of searching emotion, free from the wretched calamity that had become his day to day consciousness. Thoughts still flittered through his mind, but he pulled himself further into what he had dubbed his space heart, letting it guide him to the best place to find a bit of peace of solace as it led him on with a clear purpose. It was a loss of control that he was in control of, and it made him happy to know that one side of him still operated completely rationally (if emotions are ever rational), and he was surprised when it pulled him to a stop in front of a beautiful, well tended marble bench. He went to sit down, but something stopped him. His heart told him to look. Started screaming for him not to give up until something had been found.

Clear reluctance guided his step as he slowly navigated his way through the bushes, seeking out what his feelings knew was there. He picked his way carefully through the plants, stepping over one of the small streams installed to provide steady irrigation to the thick foliage. What exactly he was looking for, he didn't know. All he knew was that he couldn't give up until he found it.

"Quatre?" the call was distant, coming from the patio, but the Arabian barely noticed it. Trowa stood at the open doors, nervously looking out into the garden, trying to pick him out through the hanging branches of the willows. Concern washed through the tall acrobat. He had overheard the conversation earlier, and against his better judgment, he had stayed out of it. He knew his lover could handle himself no matter what, but that didn't sate his worry. Quatre's stress had been obvious as of late, since Wufei had gone into the hospital the week before. And since then, Quatre himself had become increasingly obsessed with the idea of there being a fifth pilot. Trowa bit his lower lip, stepping out into the garden and following the same pathway his lover had gone down earlier. While he loved and trusted Quatre more than life itself, he was worried beyond reason. There was no way he could stand to lose his husband to the same disease that Wufei suffered.

"Quatre?" he called again, clearing past the parameter of trees and into the spot where the bushes only stood waist high. He glanced towards a marble bench, noticing the fresh footprint in the soil. "Quatre, answer me," he pleaded, following the path of bent leafs and disrupted Earth. Pushing past the final boundary, coming to stop before the stream, he began to speak but was cut off by an agonized whine.

That's when he saw him, crouching down, tears slowly streaking trails down his cheeks. He looked like he was in shock, clutching a tarnished necklace tight to his chest as if it were his only grip on life. Trowa opened his mouth to say something, but Quatre just looked up to him, his expression tearing through him and quickly silencing him. Slowly opening his hands, Quatre lifted the object to his lover.

Breath catching, Trowa felt a familiar dizziness overwhelm him, body feeling light. It was the same sensation as when he had amnesia, and had seen Quatre for the first time. The blond stared at him, horrified and bewildered.

"He existed," he breathed, voice barely audible. But Trowa didn't hear. His eyes were glued to the trademark gold cross that had never left their friends neck in all the years he had fought beside him. Fighting off the wave of nausea that threatened to make him lose his breakfast, Trowa collapsed onto his knees, paying no heed to the cold water that he landed in.

"Quatre," he gasped, "what the hell is going on?"

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Sorry this took so long you guys. You would think spring break would be a time to update (HAHA! NOT!) but as it turns out, I've been completely overwhelmed with studying (that I put off till tomorrow), work (which I totally slacked off in), and the occasional fun time (occasionalevery day on spring break) so I really hope you can forgive me! lol! 


	9. Chapter 9: Delving Into Dreams

**Chapter 9**  
**Delving Into Dreams  
**

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Stoic black eyes gazed across the table to Chris, studying the therapist closely. Uncertainty pecked at Wufei like a hen, causing him to shift a little nervously on the large doctor's couch. 

"What's the extent of you memories involving the '02 pilot?" the therapist asked. Wufei looked down, not sure on how he should answer. In the past week since Wufei had been admitted, he hadn't seen the doctor since that first night, and had begun to doubt himself. When he met him today, there were no words exchanged between them to either confirm nor deny his suspicions—just the normal introduction of two people really meeting for the first time. He was beginning to believe that perhaps his troubled mind had made up the whispered words that day. But then again, being surrounded by people who believed they were the Anti-Christ, Trieze, or Queen of Sheba, made him seriously begin to doubt himself in general. Sometimes, late at night, he even started wondering if he really was Wufei…

He blamed these on the dreams which were becoming more and more bothersome. There were nights when, instead of his mind jumping around as normal people would, he found a scenario repeating constantly in his sleep, all centered in the one place he never had any interest in. Ancient Egypt. He would see himself, sprawled out over satins and silks, watching as a pale haired boy slowly approached him with shaking hands and nervous, sad, violet eyes. Another sat beside him, who he suspected was Heero. Although the man, in his dream, looked unmistakably Egyptian, with tawny cheeks and soft brown eyes, covered from head to toe in intricate paintings. The pale one would come before them and drop to his knees, pushing aside the gauze that encased their resting area. He would reach across, lightly trail his fingers over the chains and collars holding them both down.

"Who are you?" the pale one would ask, brows furrowing worriedly. Heero would lift dark eyes as he tilted his head to the size, rising from his lounging position with a fluid grace.

"We are sacrifices...who are you?" he murmured curiously, reaching out to caress across the angled cheek and through chestnut locks. The stranger would look down as he pulled out a lock picking device, eyes lifting.

"I am the one who will claim you..."

That was where it always ended, sometimes trailing into the other memory bothered him as well. Violet orbs and uncompleted kitchen cupboards. Magically erasing permanent markers and disappearing lovers. It was always the same in his head. Never would his throughts give him rest. Shaking his head, he took a slow, deep, steadying breath. Gnawing at the inside of his lip in agitation, he forced himself to lift clear, black eyes up to the therapist and focus on the doctor. Inside, he knew the words had been spoken. He knew he was just being paranoid. Despite this being their first real meeting, he believed this man knew Duo. Whether it was because it was real, or because he refused to admit he was that far gone, he didn't care. He was sane, damn it! The fact that he was sitting in a mental ward notwithstanding!

Taking another deep breath, Wufei kept his straight and calm composure, never letting his inner turmoil show on the calm mask of stoicism.

"Mostly just the dream," he replied, never break eye contact with Christ.

"What happens in that dream?" Chris wondered, jotting down a few notes on his clipboard.

"We're building the house that Heero and I live in," he began, teeth nearly grinding at being forced to talk more than usual.

"Heero is your husband?" Christ interrupted. Wufei cast him a scathing glare at the annoyance of being cut off before he nodded.

"Hai," he replied, shifting slightly. He waited for any other questions before he continued. "In the dream, he's working on a cabinet, and he asks me to bless a pen. Something about me being the last of my clan means it's special or something." Speaking out loud, the common nightmare that had plagued him for the last year began to sound childish and overwhelmingly stupid. Flushing slightly, he tried to hide his growing embarrassment. How asinine! Him? Blessing a pen? Because he's special or something? Sweet Nataku, maybe he was crazy…. "I finally give in, because he can make do anything just by pouting, and he starts to write something on the inside…"

Chris watched as the dragon spoke with a patient resolve, recounting every detail of the dream as if reading from a script. He couldn't help but feel admiration for the tormented man whose entire life had been centered on war and loss. The destruction of his people, the slaughter of his wife, and now the loss of a husband. It was no wonder the man could recall so well the moment Duo had been taken from him. With so many traumatic experiences, his mind had become jaded, and wasn't so willing to let his loss be forgotten to spare himself the pain. He was a stubborn man, that was for certain. And while Chris normally found stubborn people irritating, he was for once grateful at what his tenacity may achieve.

A final freedom for a man enslaved for over 3,000 years….

_**oOoOo**_

"I don't want to do this," Wufei growled, glaring at his psychiatrist with utter disdain. Chris sighed his frustration. Stubborn was an understatement when it came to this man. Bull-headed, arrogant, snide bastard was more like it. Grinding his teeth, the therapist slowly counted to ten...then twenty for good measure, and wondered how the hell Demo had managed to put up with this agitating youth for so long. But no matter how annoying the dragon had proven himself to be, the doctor had to keep his cool.

"I need you to trust me," he repeated calmly in the tone one would use to soothe a rabid she-lion in heat. Or maybe a puppy? Or an angry child? Well, it was much calmer than he felt at the moment.

"This is our first meeting!" Wufei cried out, leg twitching as he pressed back against the large sofa. Angrily, he brushed his hair back from his sharply angled face. They allowed no hair ties here, after one genius managed to choke to death after eating one. Wufei never bothered asking how or why. Something told him that he really didn't want to know the details.

"Hypnotism is a perfectly acceptable treatment for dealing with amnesia victims," Chris ground out in a forcibly pleasant tone. He had decided that this would be the best treatment for him after an hour of prodding questions over the cabinet dream. No matter what angles they took or how they looked at it, Wufei was completely baffled on anymore details, and further pushing only brought on migraines. Go figure. Of course that's how Mneme would work it—pain was the most effective deterrent in dealing with mortals. The only way around it was to put Wufei into a state where the subconscious mind became the conscious, therefore surpassing the boundaries put on the oriental boy and allow them free access to his suppressed memories.

Wufei glanced around the warm and pleasant office. Certificates and degrees hung on every wall. A large black book shelf to his right was piled with information on self-image and volumes of "Alphabetical Encyclopedia of Medical Conditions." Beside that was a desk and computer, locked cabinets probably keeping holed up all the valuable and personal information on every soul he worked with. All their secrets shared with anyone who had a key and an ability to read. It felt like a violation; physically, mentally, and figuratively. To know the entirety of his love, life, and fears were so easily reduced to meaningless notes on gaudy yellow legal paper and tucked away in forgotten metal drawers. Grimacing at the thought of his own mind and what he might say under hypnosis becoming nothing more than half assed short hand on piss colored parchment, he turned a cruel sneer back to the doctor.

Watching him intently from across the expensive glass coffee table, he trailed his eyes up and down him. Chris shifted in his recliner.

"I don't like being helpless," Wufei growled, hands folded and white knuckled in his lap.

"Sometimes, you just have to learn to trust people, no matter how much you don't want to," Chris replied as he moved over to his desk, gathering up the necessary materials to get the man into a trance. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he caught site of the snarl directed towards him, and Chris sighed. "Look, you want to remember what happened that night, don't you?" he demanded. Wufei's body tensed at the words, eyes turning guarded as his posture straightened.

"What do you mean?" he asked, off-hand and far too casual.

"The night Duo left!" Chris finally exclaimed, hands going up in exasperation before he continued to collect the needed items. A metal pen, a strobe light, notebook, water… Frustrated, he brushed back a loose strand of red hair. Cold shock coursed through Wufei as he stared, onyx orbs going wide and mouth going dry.

"So he is real…" he breathed, chest constricting. The emotional side of him, which had for so long been clinging to phantom, now rejoiced at the thought that his lover was real. The other side, logical and proud, was torn between its reactions. On one hand, he was being proven right, which was always a good thing. On the other, he was angry. Maybe he really had lost it, and this man was doing his best to sabotage his recovery. He didn't know why that would happen. Maybe an old grudge from the war?

Chris untied his hair, smoothing back the rebellious locks and once again tucking it nice and neat up into the ponytail. Wrapping the elastic back up, he glanced over to him, quirking a brow.

"That's what I told you when you first came," he replied. Tools in hand, he pulled a wheeling chair over and sat down near the edge of the couch, sitting less than three feet from his patient.

"How do I know you're not lying?" the Oriental demanded, glowering dangerously to him.

"Look, Chang…do you really feel like I am? When I said the name Duo, didn't it trigger up anything?" the therapist questioned, voice professional and collected. Wufei unconsciously leaned back from him, turning his eyes downward. He hated to admit it, but it did. Though he would never tell him that. There was no need to describe the way that one name could make his heart hurt so, or how it made his body long for that familiar touch.

Heero had told him once that he felt like Wufei loved his dream more than he loved him. In truth, Heero couldn't be more off. Heero was his heart—his soul. The strength in the storm, and the comfort in his pain. The only reason Wufei was so distraught over the dream was because his mind could not lay off of him. Every time he closed his eyes, there he was, staring back. Every time he saw a Catholic church, he remembered the golden cross. And every time he saw the characteristic shade of reddish brown hair, he recalled that luxurious chestnut braid.

If he could, he would banish all the thoughts of the strange person his mind so desperately clung to, so he could gladly spend the rest of his life just loving and holding Heero.

"Wufei?"

The voice caught him off guard, jerking him from his thoughts. That's right. He and Chris were talking. Feeling a bit uncomfortable, he took in a deep breath and held it. _Since when did you start daydreaming?_ his mind demanded. _You're starting to act like Duo!_

His body froze. His mind went quiet.

…_awkward…_

Clearing his throat, he grumbled to himself before giving a reluctant sigh.

"Fine," he relented. "I'll do it." It couldn't be any worse than dealing with himself.

Flashing him a charming, happy smile, Chris started setting up the materials excitedly. Lifting up a pen, he leaned over and flicked off the fluorescent lights, leaving only the pale yellow emergency bulbs illuminated. Holding up the pen, he steadied it in front of his patient's line of sight.

"Remember…if he performed the proper ritual, then the writing is still there. We just need to find out exactly where it is, and then we can call your husband and have him find it for you…that way, he'll know you're not lying," Chris assured. Wufei felt a hint of hope swell up in him as he nodded, swallowing hard. Proof. Real god given proof! "Now, focus on this for me," Chris said soothingly, motioning to the pen. Wufei did as told, watching it closely as the therapist flicked on the strobe light. Brows pulling together, Wufei felt a hint of nervous doubt form in the pool of his stomach.

"How do I know you're not going to alter my mind with this? Like, plant memories or something?" he demanded. Chris gave a short, amused laugh, looking to him as if he had just asked how to tell if he were man or woman.

"Trust me, Wufei. If a goddess can't fuck with your mind, then I sure as hell can't. _No one_ can mess with your stubborn ass," he replied bemused. Wufei opened his mouth to speak, but was promptly cut off when Chris waved him quiet. A goddess? What the hell could he be talking about? Was he _high_ or something? Instead of asking though, he just focused on the pen. Either he was insane, and staring at this stupid piece of metal would aid in the quick decent he was already taking, or he was right, and this would help him figure out what happened. One way or the other, Wufei was filled with the nervous apprehension that things were going to get worse either way. "Now," Chris continued. "Follow my pen, and listen closely to the sound of my voice…"

10 minutes later, the strobe light was quietly switched off, Wufei's dazed and limp body lying back against the cushions.

"Now tell me about that dream…"

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It's out early, I know, but all the feedback on the other chapter really got me going! The next chapter is going to be the most fun for me, especially because, as I watching GW yesterday, there was a part where Trieze said something that really fit in with this story. It was where he was addressing the Romafellers for the first time, and he says "God gave man free will to act without rule, so we must create a system higher than God..." and later said "God is just a figment of the imagination to give people comfort." So yes...hehehehe, great fun, great fun! 


	10. Chapter 10: Hell's Whispered Warning

**Hey! Quick note! **This Chapter is dedicated to anissa32, Abi2, and xXMika-ChanXx. Thank you for reading this, as well as "Master's Eyes"! Your support is greatly appreciated! And thank you for stroking my ego, Anissa, by choosing some of my works as favorites!  
And for everyone else who has been reading this regularly, I wish I could mention all your names, but there's so many! I promise that I will later on, but seeing as I'm at work, it's probably not the best thing to waist anymore time writing XD Thank you again for the continued support!

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**Chapter 10  
Hell's Whispered Warning  
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Sandalwood and sulfur filled the room, the familiar scent pervading Zechs' senses. Groaning, he slowly lifted his head from where it had fallen on the table, cheek sticking for a moment to the loose pages of his latest mission report. Swiping at them, embarrassed, he pulled the papers away and stacked them up, trying to gather his thoughts as he looked around for the cause of the sweet, yet acrid smell.

"Overworking again, Milliardo?" came the sultry voice from behind, hot lips brushing against his ear. Jumping, Zechs eyes jerked open and he spun to face him, only to be greeted by empty space. He hated when the man did those things! Giving a frustrated sigh, he went to turn away when a movement caught his attention. Turning fully towards it, he watched as the shadows shifted and came alive, taking the form of a tall, muscular man who seemed to draw the night in around him, his mere presence threatening to obliterate the surrounding light. Large wings of obsidian unfurled, stretching out the length of the room as he continued to solidify. As usual, when he appeared in such a way, Zechs felt a mix between arousal and exasperation. Deciding to settle with the latter, figuring it was safer in his tired state, Zechs rolled his eyes and reluctantly stood.

"Honestly, Trieze, will you ever get over the flashy entrances?" he deadpanned, giving a little stretch. Familiar laughter danced as the general of Hell's army shook the shadows off like water, demon wings tipped with red folding against his shirtless back. Mouth going dry at the image of the man he once—no…he still—loved, Zechs closed his eyes in an attempt to block him out long enough to gather his bearings.

Trieze would have none of that, though. The moment those beautiful orbs of blue closed, he was behind him, long clawed nails brushing over his hips as lightly calloused hands rubbed the Prince's lean midsection.

"Do I annoy that badly, my sweet angel?" the demon wondered amused, black eyes sparking with mirth. Once again, Zechs jumped, quickly pulling away to gain some distance, refusing to let himself be touched by the person he still hated (or so he told himself). After all…Trieze had used the world for his playground…. Grimacing angrily, he turned to face him, crossing his arms over his chest. Grinding his teeth in a mix of aggravation at himself and at his ex lover, he watched as Trieze tilted his head, an expression of sadness playing across the general's features as a fang lightly brushed across his lip.

No matter how much Zechs tried to hate him, the truth was that he couldn't. Swallowing hard, he attempted to hold up his quickly crumbling resolve, turning his face away from him. Despite both of their desires, there stood to be no plausible way for their relationship to ever be salvaged. Between them stood more than just a mere war waged by mortals. Instead of Oz and Earth Sphere politics, or even death, there now stood the solid brick wall of entire gods between the two. Idly, his fingers came up, brushing over the back of one shoulder as he traced the outline of what looked to be tattooed on white wings. Tingling danced through his nerves as a single feather in the drawing twitched, slipping out of his back to trail to the ground. They were no longer just people with differences of politics…they were creations with differences of wars spanning far beyond the ancient generals own memories….

"Didn't I _just_ banish you yesterday?" he finally demanded with a weak sigh, looking up to him tiredly. Trieze tilted his head to the side, unfazed by the cool words. Instead, his brows furrowed at the exhaustion he saw there, his arms aching to reach out and take the ephemeral man into his arms and soothe away the sorrow that played in icy orbs—kiss him senseless as he had done in the days Hades had released him to wreck havoc on the world with Oz.

"You can't banish me," he replied quietly. "I'm not a devil." Zechs heard the concern and he grimaced in disgust at the need it made him feel.

"But you _are_ a demon," he emphasized, running his fingers through his disheveled, rumpled mass of hair. Trieze moved closer to him slowly, the distance between the two seeming to disappear faster than he was walking. Lips moving up in a smirk, he caught Zechs face between two fingers, forcing him to make eye contact. Zechs froze at the smoldering gaze he saw, breath catching at the desire that lit those black eyes and almost gave them the barest hint of the old green he was used to seeing. It killed him inside, to see them such a dark shade, as it reminded him of the fact that Trieze no longer had his own soul. Whenever a being relinquished their soul, for some reason, their eyes were what changed the most, all color draining and turning the deepest tint of night. It made him hate the general's creator each time he saw them, for it provided a painful reminder as to what stood between himself and his old lover.

Zechs was a creation of a God who let them roam freely…Trieze was a creation of one who kept them in chains. And no matter how much Zechs loved him, Trieze was always far more loyal to his purpose than he was to his emotions, and he knew the General of Hell's army would never turn his back on them for the Prince, just as Zechs was unwilling to turn his back on heaven. Besides, Zechs knew he had far too much to make up for after the war and his own stupidity. His own hands were stained in blood, and he was forced to realize this every night as he looked at the outline of his wings and the crimson color of the inner feathers….

All thoughts were banished suddenly, as Trieze took his hand, slowly bringing his shaking palm up to his lips. Searing a kiss across the delicate flesh, he drew a finger into his mouth, swirling his tongue along the rough, calloused pad of Zechs' thumb, causing the white haired man to whimper. Swallowing hard, Zechs watched closely as he relinquished the digit, slowly bringing it towards Zechs' with a slight smirk…then brushed the over the side of the white haired man's lips.

"You drool in your sleep," Trieze whispered huskily, eyes amused and voice low with mirth. Zechs fumed at the laughing expression etched on his ex's face, and giving out a low growl, he pushed him away violently and headed back to the bathroom. Once his back was turned and face implanted fully into sudsy palms, Trieze allowed his hard demeanor to soften, and he let his longing show. Eyes trailed across the gentle arch of his back, wincing as he saw the red stained feathers and realized that he had also caused that. Down his stare roamed, to the hard hips and thighs, taking a moment to linger appreciatively on his ass. Sighing, he crossed his arms and ran his nails across the golden soldier's cuffs hooked a few inches below his shoulders, fighting off the driving need he felt to go to the white-haired angel and pull him hard up into his arms. It was sad, but no matter how badly he wanted to go back to him, Trieze knew that his angel was off limits.

The stain of blood permanently in the prince's wings served as a constant reminder to the pain the general had caused him, and inside, he knew that no matter what, he could never bring anything more to Zechs than more pain and death. That truth tore him up inside and made him feel sick. Never in his long life had he wanted anything as badly as he wanted him, nor had he felt emotions so strongly. It killed him, but he refused to make Milliardo ever feel a need to hide behind a mask again….

"Trieze…?" Zechs breathed, voice pained. When he had rinsed his face off and opened his eyes, he could see the distinctive loneliness and sorrow in the general's expression, and he couldn't stop that name from sliding past his lips, spoken with the reverie of a prayer. That longing, that need that he saw, nearly had him crossing the room to pull him close to him again.

Instead, it was Trieze who moved against his better judgment, pushing past the bathroom door to grab the hand towel from the sink and press his body up against Zechs' back. Unable to protest, the closeness rendering him speechless, Zechs let Trieze dab the water from his face and the top of his hair, relaxing at the familiarity of the touch. A small smile graced his lips, and he let relaxed back into the general as the cloth was set down and strong arms twined around his waist. Pressing his own hands over his wrists, he stared at the handsome face in the mirror.

"So why are you here?" Zechs wondered quietly, not really wanting to know the answer. Moving to rest his chin on his shoulder, Trieze took the risk and placed a soft kiss on his cheek, earning him a gentle, loving nuzzle. Relief flooded the general. Even if he could never have him back, he needed this time with him.

"Lucifer and Hades have a problem" he whispered, body stiffening the barest degree as he mentioned his creator and his employer.

"What's that?" Zechs asked, feeling a pang of disappointment. Why could Trieze never come on his own?

"Death is about to be unleashed, and Hades is not pleased," the general murmured, a flash of fear dancing behind his stoic guise as he pulled away. Blinking, confused at the uncharacteristic emotion, Zechs turned to face him, feeling a hint of trepidation forming in his stomach.

"So why did you come to me? Do you need a favor from Heaven?" Zechs demanded.

"No," Trieze replied, slowly withdrawing more as he drew himself up, visibly closing back in on himself as the proud demon took the place of the caring man.

"Then what?" the prince demanded, tattoo shifting on his back in irritation as his own wings ached to come out. The nervousness of the other triggered his own fear, his body attempting to go into fight or flight mode. Literally.

"Hades doesn't know I'm here," the General explained, "So I don't have long. Just avoid the four pilots at all costs. The goddess of memories has been provoked, and according to one of the oracles, Death is going to break from Hades chains." Brows furrowing at the warning, Zechs leaned back against the bathroom counter. Gods, but he hated the Greek pantheon and all their drama! In the short time he had known of their actual existence, he had grown a strong disliking for them all. You would think they had nothing better to do than torment each other, enslave mortals, and eat babies or something…or, in the case of Zeus, have enough children with anything that moved and/or once moved, to repopulate China 10 times over.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked curiously. While Trieze was known to break direct orders if it suited him, he never did so without a reason.

"Because…" the general whispered sadly, shoulder's slumping and black wings slightly moving to wrap around himself. "I want you to live long enough to be happy…even if it's not with me."

And with that, Trieze was gone, leaving behind the smell of sandalwood and sulfur, and Zechs' breaking heart.


	11. Chapter 11: On the Wings of Wisdom

_-**Attention:** Zagzagel is the name of an actual angel, and the information about his ranking came from "The Complete Dictionary of Angels". The description of him, his personality, and mannerisms, are original creations of myself and copyright only of me, as are the personalities of the gods. The only things that aren't my own original creation are the Gundam Boys, and a few characters (Zarek and future ones who shall make cameo's) which are copyright of Sherrilyn Kenyon (you don't need to know any of her stories to understand this one). With that said, on with the story!-_

**Chapter 11**  
** On The Wings Of Wisdom**

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Cold wind danced through white hair, Zechs turning pale blue eyes to stare up the mountain that made Everest look like a baby step. White wings fluttering in the iced chill of the breeze, he slowly took a hesitant step forward. Snow crunched beneath his gray boots, engulfing his calves and penetrating the matching gray pants up to his knees. Loose, oriental style shirt, the same shade as his shoes and slacks, fluttered as the cold bit at the bare skin underneath it, making him shiver. Despite his regular weekly visits up to the different levels of heaven's realm, he had never actually come to this one particular corner. He had never found it necessary. But now, as he tilted back his head to try and sneak a glimpse of a top that was hazed in clouds, he second guessed himself on whether or not his decision to come here was a wise one. 

After all, it was rumored that Zagzagel, the angel of wisdom, was never a man who freely gave his words. One had to be willing to fight to hear the truth from the chief guard of the fourth heaven. Hence the treacherous height he kept his residence at. Sure, for most angels in most situations, it would be rather easy to just appear or fly to where he was, but Zagzagel had control over this realm, and made the wind almost deadly up at top. Many rumors had been told of how even Michael once was unable to make it, although, of course, the proud being would never admit to it. And Zechs? Zechs was just a half breed, born of a human and an angel who had relinquished her position for a mortal. How could he ever hope to make it where Michael could not?

No…he had to do this. He couldn't doubt himself. Trieze's earlier words had spurred him on, and he realized that if he ever wanted to have his lover back, he needed to know their meaning. There was more to it than that, though. His guilt over destroying the innocence of the four pilots tore into him, and the plight of Wufei was enough to make him want to cry. All that he understood of the situation was that Duo was a being, ethereal like them, who had been returned to his captivity for a "great crime" he had committed thousands of years back. What it was, he never was sure. But knowing the Greek and Egyptian pantheon's, it was probably something so worthless as spitting East on a day when Zeus washed toga.

Obviously, though, Duo was a big deal in their realm…so much so, that whatever was going on with him was spilling over to the mortal lands, and now even seeping into Lucifer and Heaven's kingdoms. And if it was enough for Trieze to worry that he would die from it? Well, Trieze should have known better than to expect that to keep him from meddling. Death never stood as much of a threat when it came to where his morals or his friends were involved. And as much as he hated to admit it…Heero, Duo, and the others had slowly become his friends. Even if the feeling was only one sided.

Fluttering his wings, he took a deep breath and stared into the swirling clouds above. Winds pushed and pulled in different directions above, making tiny twisters and thunder crash, as if anticipating his entrance into them. Like a bully popping his knuckles before the fight, the weather prepared to block his entrance to see Zagzagel. But Zechs' determination spurred him.

One beat of his wings and he launched up, feeling the familiar rush of excitement that pooled in his gut every time he flew. No one as a child ever went without a wish for wings or an envy for the birds, including him. So on that day in space, after the wars had ended and Noin had abandoned him for home, he had quickly forgotten the pain that occurred when his wings finally ripped through flesh and bone to erupt from his back. The agony of the moment was replaced by the overwhelming thrill of knowing that no longer did he need a craft to take him through the stars. It was a freedom the likes of which he had never dreamed of knowing. And no matter the pain of the first time the wings broke out, or the loneliness that came from being the only half breed left in all of Heaven and Earth, the feel of wind tickling past the sensitive feathers and the weightlessness as thermals carried him high made up for every moment of it.

Quickly, the distance closed between him and the clouds as he picked up speed, moving fast as bullet as the air whistled past his ears. His concentration hardened as he saw the dark storm above begin to gather into a pinpoint straight over his head, as if he were a lightening rod, the living specter of clouds readying for the fight. And a fight it would get.

Colder and colder the air became as he neared. Ten feet, five feet, one foot….then, finally, an inch before his face would break through the heavy fog, he jerked his body ninety degrees to fly parallel along the storms underside. Right where he was, a crackle of lightening sounded, jagged and reaching for him as he danced away. Up again he went, breaking past the barrier and feeling the electric tingle over his body as the clouds rumbled with thunder, preparing for another strike. Wind slammed into him, threatening to knock him off course, but like the skilled pilot he was, he instead switched the out of control burst to work for him, angling his wings and body so it would instead lift him on its rage filled head, providing him momentum and speed at an acceleration beyond what he could achieve on his own. Another gust from another side, and he did the same, almost laughing as the adrenaline went through him. This was more like a game than anything. Below him and to his left, as well as above, he could feel a charge beginning to form, white hair standing up on end like a porcupine. His muscles tensed and he readied himself for the blast.

_CRACK!_ Lighting struck out, and he spun to the side, wings retracting against his body as he dove down to get past it, swooping back up and dodging just in time to miss the ricochet shots that branched off towards him. Another laugh as the thrill hit him, not having felt this alive since he had flown Talgeese. But unlike the mech, the control was fully in his hands, and his agility was many times better. _Beat this, Wing,_ he crowed in his head. If he could have fought Heero for the first time like this, the boy would have never stood a chance.

Letting out a hard breath, he blinked in surprise as it crystallized in front of him, forming a packet of ice. This barely registered before he hit the cold pocket in the sky, feeling the moisture of his sweat freeze as crystals began to form on the tips of his feathers, weighing down his wings. A sense of dread hit him, but he knew he couldn't stop yet, despite the stiffness with which his body started moving. Instead of letting it take him down, he swung out his arms to shatter the thin coating that had formed on his skin, wiggling his body around like a worm through the hair. Wings started beating harder to keep the blood flowing and shake off the icicles, performing various acrobatic moves in the air as he continued up. The more he moved, the more heat his body would produce, reducing the risk of his blood freezing or him being defeated.

Above him, he could see the thin rays of light piercing through the darkness, promising blue skies and freedom. Was that all? Had only that taken down Michael? Given…most angels weren't used to combat in space, or used to combating the environment. As a pilot he had been trained to prepare for everything, while Heavens creatures normally only battled on the ground or in hot environments when they performed raids in hell. Besides that, the most treacherous of weather they ever experienced was the occasional draft from another person's wings. He was used to such stunts and conditions, and without the extra weight of a mobile suit, he did find such things pretty easy, if not exhilarating. But honestly….that couldn't be all it took to knock Michael down.

Almost disappointed, he broke free through the tops, looking back down to see the peaceful white clouds as they rolled past. No hint as to the turmoil inside of them showed from this angle, and he felt a small smile form on his lips. Even the most deadly of chaos could prove to be beautiful. Feeling proud of his accomplishment, part of him was tempted to go to Michael when he returned and tease him.

"Ha!" he laughed out loud. "Half breeds aren't as good as arch angels my a—" His words were cut off when something crashed into the back of his head, a sharp angle catching and tearing at a bit of his hair as his body was sent stumbling head over heels, sparks flying in front of his eyes at the pain of the impact. Trying to right himself, he barely managed to slow his momentum before he hit face first against the side of the mountain, smacking into a sharp, straight face that bruised his cheek.

"Son of a bitch!" he cried out as his body began to fall. Catching himself with his wings, hands fumbling on the flat surface for a hand hold, he finally managed to stop his descent less than an inch before falling back into the clouds. Rubbing the back of his head with his free hands, wings shaking out as he dangled by a fierce grip on a jutting rock, he looked around for what attacked him….

But the only thing he saw was a dazed seagull fluttering dizzily nearby.

"No way…" he said, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. Did he just get blindsided by a bird?

"You know," came a low, quiet voice from above. Looking up, he saw a medium sized form staring at him from over the ledge, the backdrop of the mountain still stretching unbelievably high into the heavens, making the angel look even smaller. "Pride is what kills us. It makes us believe ourselves infallible, and while we watch for the attacks that are more cunning, we forget to keep our eyes open for the obvious."

Grinding his teeth, Zechs sighed as he carefully let go of his hold and flew up, much more humbled from the experience. Keeping his eyes open for any more drive by seagulls, he carefully landed himself beside the boy, and looked down to him a bit surprised.

Zagzagel was not what most would imagine. Through many stories, people had described the Angel of Wisdom as ranging anywhere from a warrior to an old man, but never like this. Standing barely 5'3, he was surprisingly short, with deep purple eyes and matching hair twisted into dreadlocks, reaching down to the middle of his elegant neck which was decked out in candy necklaces. Pale skin glistened, a soft, sweet face interrupted only by piercings on his lip and eyebrow. Wearing parachute, violet pants, a white wife beater, and an indigo over shirt lined with pale green reflective stripes on the sleeves, he looked more like someone who belonged in a rave than as the chief guard of the 4th heaven and the very voice of reason to the Creator and ruler of Heaven. Twirling a tootsie pop in his mouth, he studied the white haired man curiously, before turning and walking away.

Zechs followed quickly, not bothering to ask any questions. Wherever the boy led him, he wouldn't protest. He knew he was lucky to just be granted an audience. And to have been approached by him none the less, instead of making Zechs look for him? Yes, the half breed was definitely lucky.

They approached an area that seemed to warp as they walked, turning from a path that continued up the seemingly endless mound, to what appeared to be the top of the mountain. Blinking, he glanced around at the beautiful meadows and valleys, taking a glance over the edge to see just how far down the clouds were now. A trek of what seemed like hundreds of miles was shortened to a few steps, and he resisted the urge to gawk in awe at the subtle, yet shocking power of the one before him.

Flat soled shoes scuffed the ground as the small boy leaped onto a boulder, sitting down rather ungracefully with a little huff as his knees propped up and spread. He looked as if he belonged on a skate board instead of heaven. Pressing his feet together in a pose that reminded him of the lotus positions Wufei would sometimes sit in to meditate, Zagzagel turned amethyst eyes to the man, studying him closely.

"You come to me for advice on the demon and his warning, no?" the angel asked. Zechs nodded, idly wondering if the boy's wings matched his hair. They were hidden at the moment though, probably lightly outlined as a tattoo on his back as Zechs' were when his were in.

"Yes," he replied, moving to sit beside him. He felt no discomfort around him, nor need for formalities. It was surprising. It was as if the great angel was communicating with his subconscious, letting him know there was no need for that here. All was on the same level…and for once…for once Zechs' didn't feel inferior for his mixed blood. Looking up to him, Zagzagel studied Zechs a moment, the purple haired angel's boyish face seeming so innocent while his eyes seemed lost and old. After a moment, the boy produced another lollipop, this one blueberry, and held it up for the man.

"Your favorite," he stated. Zechs blinked his surprise. It really was. Taking it, he smiled slightly as popped it into his mouth, tucking the wrapper into his shirt pocket.

"Thanks," he replied gratefully. He really meant it to. No one so far had treated him so kindly. Apparently, those of his breed weren't looked to highly upon. Especially when his mother, as some had put it, was "unsavory to begin with." What that meant, or even who her parents were, he wasn't exactly sure. But all he knew was that he didn't care. It was his mom, and he would love her no matter her lineage.

"We're all the same here," Zagzagel said, closing his hands over his feet and holding them together. "Now, tell me what you think is right, my light," he continued, using a term of endearment that made Zechs blink curiously. Perhaps it was just because of his hair color?

Zagzagel felt a tug of a smile at his lips at the confusion he could tell that term caused. If only the man knew what it really meant…

"I can't let Duo stay where he is," Zechs said slowly, thinking out his words. "I don't know what he did, but he's been there long enough, and it's causing unnecessary suffering. I can hear him crying when I close my eyes. I've also heard the screams from Heero and Wufei in their sleep…I connected to them, and I didn't mean to. It just…it just happened during the war, I suppose, because of my own guilt." Thoughtfully, he trailed the sucker over his lips, as he spoke.

"Is it your guilt spurring on this conclusion, or your morals?" the other inquired, staring out at a flock of butterflies that danced through random patches of flowers in the knee high grass of the fertile valley. Things were amazing in Heaven…

"At first, I thought it was my guilt, hence why I didn't act on it," Zechs explained, studying the ground. "I realize that by acting on guilt without our integrity or our common sense, we sometimes make things worse…" he paused, his innermost feathers twitching almost painfully as he recalled the bloody color of them. That was caused by his own rush to atone for sins that never were his to make up for in the first place. How many suffered in his attempt to alleviate his own pain? "But as I think about it, there is something inherently wrong with this. I don't trust Lucifer nor Hades…and sometimes, I'm not even sure I trust the Creator. Given…it's not as if It has ever done anything bad to me…but…I just feel like so many of the mandates and orders placed on our kind go against what I feel. Right here." With that, he motioned to his heart, glancing to Zagzagel, hoping he wouldn't sound stupid or be called a traitor. More than anything, he wanted the support, and while he knew it was probably stupid to come to one of Heavens beings for advice that might just lead him to breaking the rules of Heaven, he had no idea where else to go.

Zagzagel sighed thoughtfully for a moment, digesting the information.

"You know that the Creator can never be fully interpreted, even by us," the boy replied after a few moments, never looking to him. Zechs was almost relieved. Those eyes were so distant and sad—the eyes of a being who had seen far too much to attain such wisdom. "The only way we can ever hope to do what's right and live a life in the divinity of righteousness is to follow the only guide that the Creator gave us. This is your heart and instincts." Rubbing the back of his own neck, Zagzagel turned his gaze to him, studying Zechs' eyes closely. "Despite the threat to your life, or even the threat of being exiled, will you still risk it to help those who many times have claimed to hate you?"

The prince looked down at the words, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his cheek on it. That was true. While Heero had been a friend to him and had been his partner on many missions since wartime had ended, Wufei never forgave him for his role in helping Trieze capture the dragon for tortures. Therefore, Heero never really became too close to him, despite their similarities. But that was his fault. Even Quatre sometimes seemed to turn a cold shoulder to him, for whatever reason the blond had to dislike him. Zechs couldn't blame him for it though. But to be exiled from Heaven for helping them? From this beautiful place where he was free to fly without fear? Where, even though he was still an outcast as he had been his whole life, he still felt as if he slightly belonged? Would he go back to having no home to speak of, isolating himself even more for people who had sworn to never forgive him? For Trieze, a man who would never take that one step needed to break free and be with him? Would he make the sacrifice for them, even though they wouldn't for him?

It really didn't even need thought.

"Yes," he replied. "I'd do it a million times over, even if it meant my death. Because it's the right thing to do." Even if the right thing would only end in hurt for him. _No good deed goes unpunished._

"Your path is a hard one then. You are the light, which is meant to guide those from the darkness…but the light is always alone. It can never be with another of its kind; it is blind to the evils that will come to it, and must face the blows on its own. In order to be a beacon for the suffering in the night, it will also become a lure for the evil's which desire to drain it. And you will always be so blinded by your own desire to help that you won't see it. You can't see into the ally when standing underneath a streetlight." The metaphor caught him off guard and he looked to him a bit confused by it. Honestly, Zechs had expected something a bit more poetic or timeless than a reference to a streetlight. But then again, he also didn't expect to be receiving advice from a boy who looked like a twelve year old raver.

Zagzagel shifted from his position, kicking his long legs out in front of himself, studying ducky printed shoe laces as he swayed his feet from side to side as if entranced by their movement. "Your brightness does not belong amongst light, Zechs. You are a Prince, in more ways than you know. Take this into your heart, and never forget it: your place is amongst the darkness, for it is the only place you will ever belong, even if it will be devastatingly lonely. For there is the only place you can do what is right and complete your calling. People here will you hate for it, but remember—the only rules the Creator has set in stone are the ones that we feel inside of us. You will know when you over step your bounds, and so long as you pursue what your soul tells you too, you will never venture far from what is right. Seek nothing for personal gain, but instead do only what you must to fix the injustice that has occurred."

Violet eyes landed on him, digging into his soul. Zechs shifted almost uncomfortably, turning his gaze down.

"You are Judgment, and you know that Death is not a slave. Hades binding him to Mneme needs to be corrected. For even Democritus—Duo, as you call him—is known here as Azreal, and as every name Death can ever be given." Zechs looked up in surprise. Was Duo the one Trieze had spoken of? Duo really was Death? More than that, he was _the_ Death? Azreal, Shinigami...he was it? Was that why it was affecting all the realms so strongly? "You know what you must do. Pay no more heed to the color of your wings, only the color of your soul…if you focus only on exterior aesthetics, you will never be able to shine. But choose carefully what you do. Do not let this power taint you, or you will wind up as your grandfather."

Before Zechs could inquire on the statement, the world around him shifted and went black.

A few moments later, his eyes opened, and he found himself lying in his bed, naked except for the silk black boxers he wore. Hair sprawled out around him, curled up on his side, he felt more comfortable and rested than he had for ages. Had it all been a dream?

Moving his hand, he felt a hint of surprise when he realized something was in it.

A blueberry sucker.

Blueberry had always been his favorite….


	12. Chapter 12: Memories Never Die

**Chapter 12  
Memories Never Die**_  
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_Heero…_ the soft whimper sounded once more through the black plains of dreams, the Japanese man shifting with furrowed brows as he tried to move again. How many nights had this horrid dream filled his head, leaving him drained and exhausted the next day, body hurting and head pounding from a migraine so intense it threatened to make his eyes burst? Weakly, he tried to urge his immobile, paralyzed body to move, but as had happened every day since Wufei's disappearance, he found himself rendered helpless and aching. A soft whimper broke past his chapped lips, and he almost wished that person—Zarek was it?—who had appeared that first night would return to aid him. Help him go to the voice.

But it wasn't so…not that he was alone. Zarek watched with close eyes, unbeknownst to Heero, silently rooting him on as he pleaded for his wife, Astrid, to help him sway the fates in the Japanese man's favor. But so far, nothing had come back. And despite Zarek's own desires, he too was bound by laws and couldn't afford to help him any further. Unless he wanted to anger the gods and get him and his wife in trouble… _again_. As if he already weren't in enough trouble from when he pissed in Zeus sandals….

But it _had_ been Zarek's birthday…and he _had_ been really, really drunk.

Smirking at the memory, he lightly fingered over the top of his goatee, staring into the viewing mirrors around him. Switching scenarios to the scene being played out in the mirror next to Heero's, he studied the god of death as he laid stomach first on Mneme's bed. Shaking, violet eyes now puffy and red, the boy coughed past the blood in his throat. The goddess of memories slid her nails over his slender back, murmuring threats with the tones of sweet nothing's in the poor childs ear, laughing at the tears that streaked down sullen cheeks and a hopeless face. Rage rose in him at the site, and he quickly cut off the feed to stop himself from interfering. Damn it…this wasn't fair!

"Come on, jackass!" he suddenly screamed at Heero. "You're slower than a Roman with his legs cut off!" he yelled, smacking the flat of his palm down hard over the glass. He saw Heero wince, and knew it must have felt like only a slight push. Grinding his teeth, he growled. Although Zarek was Roman, he hated the people for what his father had done to him, and was really beginning to hate this Heero kid just as much. If only he would move, he didn't think he'd be so pissed off…

"Damn it! He's real, you stupid Asian bastard! _He's real!_"

In his dream, Heero heard what reminded of him an angry fly…god, his imagination was getting more and more aggravating.

_**oOoOo**_

A shrill screech cut like a knife through his temples, splitting his skull in half with an explosive wave of noise, splattering his brains all over the walls. Or at least, that's the visualization Heero got when the ringing of the phone scattered the fog of a restless sleep. Rolling over to quickly grab for the handset, he immediately regretted the move, crying out as his white light exploded behind closed eyes. Agony pulsed through his skull, a barely noticed whimper sliding past his lips as he gasped. Sweet Kami…was this what Wufei felt?

By the time the nausea and pain had subsided long enough to register anything else, the phone had blessedly gone quiet. Carefully, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, slowly rising from the bed and to his feet. Blessed darkness filled the room, and he winced toward the clock. Almost five in the afternoon…he couldn't believe his sleeping patterns had gone so off since Wufei left. So many times, he found himself collapsing on the bed at noon, or up and jittery at midnight. Why wouldn't his mind leave him alone?

"Ice," he murmured to himself, pressing the palm of his hand against the back of his neck. "Icepack would feel good…"

Stumbling from the room, he steadied his breathing and tried to bring out the training of the perfect soldier. Maybe if he could tuck away his mind and sensibilities long enough—suppress his emotions and his aches—he might actually be able to get his mind back on track. But something in him screamed that suppressing things was what had gotten him into this mess. Maybe if he just dealt with the pain he felt at losing Wufei, then that would be enough? Maybe this was all just his body reacting to his sympathy for his husband and best friend?

Was there something more?

"_Where do memories go when they die?"_

Heero jumped, grabbing onto the kitchen counter. He could have sworn those words were spoken in the room, but as he looked around in the darkness of the kitchen, he saw no one besides him. Blinds drawn, sun set, lights off, he was left to scavenge the shadows and tell his terrified heart that no boogie man lurked inside of them. But it wasn't too intent on focusing on that. It had it's attention on something else…

Staring at the table, he slowly slid down to the floor as a scene seemed to light up before him like a bad flashback in an old movie. And there he was…the braided figure as Wufei had always described, sitting across from…Heero. Blinking at the image of himself, the Japanese pilot could only watch numbly as the events unfolded.

_Cobalt eyes turned to study the American, brow quirking over his news paper as he sipped on his morning coffee. Fiddling with his braid, the boy lightly chewed over the tips as he glanced around the kitchen, seeming to pause on a spot by the unfinished cabinets. It was as if he could see something there, and it made his lips twist down in a frown before quickly looking back over to his lover._

"_What do you mean?" Heero asked, giving a disinterested glance to see what had caused the boy so much trouble. All he noticed was the sawdust and loose screws, piled wood and paint cans, scattered through out their nearly finished home._

"_Where do memories go when they die?" the boy replied, leaning forward to tug the newspaper down and destroy the boundary between them._

"_I don't think memories die, koi," Wufei suddenly piped in, yawning as he plopped down unceremoniously in his chair, ruffled hair tangled and snagging on his long eye lashes. Laughing softly, the American reached over and tugged a few strands away, causing the Chinese boy to grimace._

"_You'd be surprised. One day, you'll forget me…" the braided wonder murmured with a sweet, sad smile on his lips._

"_Baka. Why do you say such cryptic things? You're too damn loud to just forget…"_

_The American sighed, giving a small smile as he looked back down to his eggs and the pile of dry Scooby Doo cereal stacked beside them, popping one of the marshmallows into his mouth. He didn't bring it up again, but instead, those deep orbs shifted, moving to rest on the spot by the counter again…_

…moving to rest on Heero.

A scream tore through the house, seeming to sound at different tones through out nearly every room, breaking the vision and making his voice join in. Jumping up to try and either escape, or find the source, he smacked his head on the corner of the counter and cried out. Great…now that didn't help with the headache. Grabbing the wound, he could feel a touch of blood forming from the split skin and he stumbled to his feet, trying to get his bearings. The screaming continued, but after a moment, he realized what it was.

The phone.

God damn it, he was driving _himself_ nuts!

"Hello?" he growled once he managed to pick it up. Flicking on the lights, he once again regretted another decision for the day, wincing at their intensity.

"I'm sorry to bother you Mr. Yuy…but this is Chris from down at Hedgeling. I'm Wufei Chang's therapist." Interest perked, he snagged an icepack and headed for the small breakfast table…before thinking better of it. Shuddering at the still clear image ringing in his head of the delusion, he elected instead to sit on a stool by the counter.

"Is everything all right?" he asked worriedly. A soft sigh from the other end, and when Heero listened closer, he could hear the aggravated nagging of a ruffled Dragon. He could vaguely make out the words "mashed peas," "scratchy couch", and "risqué hospital gowns," in the background. A soft smile lit his features. Yah…he sounded fine, it seemed. At least he was back to bitching again.

"On his end, yes. I find that he's starting to drive _me_ insane though," the doctor sighed. Both laughed at the loud growl from the Dragon, and Heero felt the muscles in his neck relax, and he wasn't sure if it was from the relief of hearing the old Wufei or the ice.

"What's going on?" he asked, unable to keep the happiness from leaking into his voice.

"I need you to look at something for me so we can put this fifth pilot motion to rest. Do you have a corner cupboard in your kitchen, Mr. Yuy?" Chris asked. Heero stood, making his way around the counter and into the "U" shaped lay out of countertops and appliances.

"Two, actually," he replied.

"I need you to take measurements of height the left one and the right one, and tell me if they're different at all," Chris stated. Rolling his eyes, Heero pulled open a junk drawer and rummaged for the measuring tape, then went to complete the task.

"I can already tell you the measurements," he grumbled.

"Just do it," Chris snapped, causing the Japanese man to blink in surprise. Jesus…pushy pushy…

"Fine," he growled his reply. "The first is 20 inches high." Sliding across to the other, he listened as the doctor made an affirmative noise.

"Got it, and the second?" he wondered. Heero threw open the door, lining up the tape to take the same measurement. They had built these damn precisely to be perfectly semetrical, due to Heero's little obsessive compulsive needs. But when he took the measurement, he realized something was wrong.

"It's only 18…" he murmured, a bit baffled. A chill trickled down his spine as he repositioned the phone so he could hold it with his shoulder, feeling around for a way to take the wood off. "We measured these perfectly. This should be twenty."

"Can you see if there's anything underneath it?" Chris asked.

"Already ahead of you, doc."

Wufei shifted nervously in his seat as he watched Chris, the red headed therapist writing down notes the entire time. What were they talking about? What had he found?

After a few long moments of wait, a loud crash could be heard from over the phone, followed by a thick silence.

"Mr. Yuy?" Chris called. A shaky breath answered him. "Mr. Yuy, what is it?"

Heero couldn't think to respond. Only to cry.

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_Sorry for the long delay in updates you guys! Updates for all my stories will be back to normal now! I've been inundated with school work, plus two jobs, and getting ready to move out of town in a few months, so you'll have to forgive the hiatus . -Sarin_


	13. Chapter 13: Nothing is Sacred

**Chapter 13  
Nothing is Sacred  
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Anil and Kasha had finally gone home. Ringing the hour of seven o'clock through out the empty house, a lone grandfather clock provided an eerie, sonorous break to the silence that Trowa and Quatre found themselves sitting in. The entirety of the small summer home was dark, sans the single light they sat under on the patio by the garden, both carefully studying the tarnished golden cross on the table between them with a hint of fear. Since its discovery earlier that morning, neither had let it out of their sight. It provided a fearful realization, and seemed to place up a boundary around them and the rest of the world…as well as between the two of them. It threatened to drive them both insane, leaving their heads teetering between reality and dreams—sanity and madness.

"We're not insane…?" Quatre asked in barely audible whisper, white teeth worrying the inside of his cheeks bloody. Trowa shook his head, hands grasping his pants desperately, keeping a safe distance between himself and a piece of jewelry that seemed to possess all the mystical and haunting qualities of every holy apparition he had ever heard about. They couldn't have been more frightened had the devil come up and tap danced on the very glass top before them.

"No more than Wufei," Trowa replied after a few steady breaths. Quatre winced. It was true. They were no more insane than Wufei, who was either locked up for being completely right…or possessing a contagious disease of the mind.

"Who do you think it belonged to?" Quatre murmured. Trowa gave an odd look to Quatre, brows furrowing in disbelief. They had both agreed on one thing about it earlier—that it had belonged to a strange, long haired pilot. Someone they were just now beginning to recall. A piercing purple gaze that seemed to laugh and draw them in to the warmth of a gentle smile and a soothing touch. A wisdom hidden behind a Cheshire grin. A lump formed in the European's throat, causing him to rub at his eyes as an unexplainable sadness permeated his senses. Longing squeezed his heart, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to hear a voice he didn't even recall…

"We know who's it is," Trowa rasped out, green orbs shut to block out tears. Quatre's hand on his cheek surprised him at first, then comforted, causing him to lean into it as he lifted his gaze to his sweet lover.

"I know that…I just wonder what his name is," Quatre stated soothingly, brushing away a stray droplet from Trowa's cheek.

"I have no clue," Trowa replied quietly. Scooting closer, Quatre closed the distance between them so they were sitting shoulder to shoulder, and quickly curled up in the comforting hold of his lover. A soft smile lit through the pain on his face, and Trowa felt himself relax a little. Both were still stiff, both were still anxious and nervous. But at least they had each other.

That was more than Wufei and Heero could say at the moment.

An odd urge sparked in him, suddenly as a certain realization hit him. Whoever this fifth pilot was…whatever happened to him…was he alone? There were no friends to smile when he couldn't, no arms to support him when he was weak. And the sadness he felt at his absence made him want to reach out and touch him, despite the distance of miles he wasn't sure even existed. Perhaps they were both wrong? What if he didn't exist? But how to explain the cross? Long, slender fingers reached out of their own accord, the acrobat's hand hesitantly extending to touch the weatherworn necklace, as if by touching that, the nameless face would feel the love and comfort Trowa wished to give.

Quatre watched as he reached for it, nervousness filling him. It wasn't as if the necklace was possessed, but it provided a clue to something that shouldn't be. A person who had literally been wiped out of existence. No pictures, no memories…even the history books, the friends, the home, and the life…everything that should possessed some clue as to who he was. Every document to prove that they existed. Gone. What could have done that? Idly, his mind drifted back to all the movies he had seen as a child. Shows of people being abducted by aliens and eradicated from existence. CIA agents and government spies. Could something like that really exist? And besides…if it did…wouldn't someone have found out before? Trowa's fingers paused over the chain, and Quatre could feel the breath held in the shoulder under his head, and he slowly lifted himself up, feeling as if something were going to happen. As if that necklace could unlock the secret with just a touch. As if it could unlock the truth.

His fingers lowered down. And then were immediately torn up in surprise.

The song "Iron Man" by Black Sabbath shattered the surreal moment and broke the tension, quickly slamming them both back into their bodies and back into real life.

"Sweet Allah!" Quatre cried out, grabbing his chest as the familiar tune registered, sending him into relieved giggles. Trowa blushed, quickly fumbling to get his cell phone out of his pocket. "I love that song, now…"

"Yah…I'll bring that up when you say you hate it at the next executive dinner," Trowa grumbled sheepishly, flipping it open. Upon seeing the name on the caller ID, instinctual worry branched through him. "Heero!" he exclaimed. "Is everything all right?" Heero's shaky breathing greeted him from the other side.

"I just got a call from Wufei." The Japanese man's voice was heavy, filled with shock, sounding as if he had just run miles. Trowa's stomach dropped, and he leaned back in his chair, brows furrowing as a cold feeling washed over him. Could the cross have been the least of their problems?

"What happened?" Trowa demanded harsher than he meant to. Quatre looked up, face paling.

"He and his therapist put him under hypnosis. They told me to check for the writing again," Heero whispered, voice cracking.

In his kitchen, the Japanese man sat back heavily, cradling the icepack to his neck with shaking hands, knees tucked up to his chest. He felt as Wufei must have just days ago, pans sprawled out, sweat pouring down his face, trying to connect the pieces in a puzzle that shouldn't fit. Hell…it wasn't that they shouldn't fit. It was that the pieces shouldn't exist. That it couldn't exist. How could it? How could something like this happen? How could someone be forgotten? How the hell could Wufei be _right_?

"Didn't you do that already?" Trowa asked. Heero nodded to himself, tugging on the cupboard door that he had ripped halfway off its hinges, foot kicking aside a pot and sending it clanging across the tile.

"Yah," he finally replied out loud, looking into the corner right cupboard. Something so simple had become such a catalyst in his life. How stupid it seemed.

"And?" Trowa's voice betrayed the hope and fear, which Heero found strange but comforting. Little did he know of the discovery the two had also made.

"The cabinet…there was second board placed over it to hide the actual top," Heero explained, shifting to look inside once again. "It looked smaller…I mean, I measured it when the therapist said too…and it was. So I ripped it out…" It wasn't like the Japanese man to babble, making Trowa shift nervously.

"And?" the European demanded, breath held anxiously. Heero turned his gaze back up to the top.

"Here, you see for yourself…" Heero whispered, turning on the video feed. Trowa pulled the cell phone away from his face to watch, and Quatre moved to peer over his shoulder at it from around him. They caught a glimpse of the broken wood of the door—the scattered soup cans and broken shelves. He moved it to focus on a dark area on the cabinets' top, the screen black until a flashlight kicked on. A few moments passed while the camera's resolution adjusted. And then, the world once again was ripped apart.

In permanent, thick black marker, in a familiar looping calligraphy, was the writing Wufei had predicted.

And the name they had all forgotten.

"Duo Maxwell…"

In the distant realms of dreams and the beyond, Mneme screamed her rage.

_**oOoOo**_

"TRIEZE!" Wincing at the shrill yell, the General of the Greek hell gave an annoyed, yet slightly apprehensive huff, feigning exasperation to save face. Externally, he put on the façade of aggravation, seemingly fed up with Hades constant bitching. Inside, he was near panicking. Had his creator managed to somehow discover Trieze's little trip up to see Zechs? To see the person who was not only an angel, but the one creature capable of shattering Trieze's loyalty to his lord and turning him against everything he was made for? Sighing, telling himself to calm down (after all...it was rumored Hades could smell fear), he stood reluctantly from his card game and gave a pained grimace to the others.

"Uh oh," Eros taunted, the god of love leaning back and tossing blond banana curls over a wide set shoulder. "Someone pissed off his Tiny and Aggravating." Rolling his eyes, Trieze snuffed out the clove cigarette he had been working and rubbed over the golden band digging harshly into his arm. Though normal bands didn't bother him, this one had 8 spikes that pierced through flesh and muscle to rub the bone directly with every twitch the wearer made. It was the way Hades demanded his minions show loyalty—by proving their ever present desire to suffer for their lord. For those who would live in pain would surely die in victory. Right?

"When isn't he pissed off at something?" Trieze murmured, tossing back a few stray strands from his eyes. "I'll see you all later. Eros…take my winnings. You'll need them," he remarked with a cool smile. Eros smirked, Psyche leaning her head on his arm as he gave a little chuckle. It was true…Eros was a bit of a compulsive gambler, after all. And he never really was in the habit of winning.

Giving one last, reluctant look around Sanctuary, the earth realm club he and others of his kind would normally come to just to avoid the gods when they had a chance, he gave a sad little grumble. Why couldn't he ever go a day without hearing his name shouted by a boy with short man syndrome and, what he was starting to predict, was a male's version of menopause? Jesus Christ…

"TRIEZE!" Another yell, this time louder, shaking the walls of the room located on the mortal plain…damn, he seemed pissed this time. Waving his hand, he quickly banished himself from the private room of the club, appearing, as was custom, outside of Hades study so he may be able to make a proper entrance.

Quickly, he pushed open the door, fist going over his heart and body dropping down to a kneeling position of complete submission before his lord. Head bowing, he closed his eyes and clenched the muscles in his upper arm to drive them in deeper. It was a symbolic gesture that he had gotten used to over the ages. Eyes closing, he took a deep and calming breath.

"My lord, you have summoned me," he half stated, half questioned in a servile tone. Hades huffed, standing above him with his chin held high, flame blue hair flickering around his cheeks and twisting with life down his back as he glared with matching eyes. Standing only 5'5 with a whipcord body and a personality of a flamboyant gay man, Hades was not just a man to be reckoned with. He was a spoiled rich Princess…at least, that's what people called him when he wasn't listening. Sandal tapping the ground, he pulled back pale lips to snarl at the general.

"It took you long enough," he hissed in disapproval. Trieze resisted the urge to sigh at the apparent hissy fit his lord was once again throwing, eyes slightly slitting open to survey what he could of the room without being caught. Vases were shattered on the ground, scattered randomly across the onyx flooring. Narcissus flowers were ripped apart, and clothing lay ragged and tossed in piles. In the corner, a small pup of Cerebus sat, all three heads buried under a discarded toga, the foot long beast fearful of its master's spoiled wrath.

"Forgive me, my lord," he replied, never daring to rise. A familiar, condescending chuckle echoed through the room. Lucifer. The one person who had ever been able to claim and control the spoiled ruler of the Greek Underworld. Over 8 feet tall, the white haired man was a site to behold. Skin burnt black after his fall from Jehovah's realm and his adaptation to his new kingdom, he was a fearful but attractive beast. Ice blue eyes, the color of arctic water, were freezing yet warm at the same time, his large body so perfectly sculpted it would have made even DaVinci blush and cry from the glory of it.

Huge, white wings were always drawn in to look like bleached tattoos across the back of his ebon body—such as what Zechs had. Except Lucifer's wings, upon closer inspection, were clearly like the fur of a polar bear. Clear. Hollow. Capable of great strength and perseverance of the coldest and hottest of temperatures. Small spots near the base of his wings were where only a few sensitive, regular feathers were located, stained black from his betrayal of the lord. But the rest were left to glow in the beautiful, snowy light that gave him his title of the North Star. Still the most beautiful of all the angels made.

He was a man that Trieze admired and adored all at once. Someone he wished he could serve. Dominating and powerful, he was what Trieze, since he had first met him, had modeled his personality to be like. The person he had tried to imitate when he went to Earth to lead Oz. A man who rose from nothing, to god.

Someone who was free. Blessedly free.

"You have to understand, Little Mislead," Lucifer stated, referring to Trieze in a name the General never could understand. "Hades is in one of his moods. A few pieces of his potential collection seem to be sliding out of his reach again." A loud smack resounded as Hades hand made contact with Lucifer's cheek at the same moment Lucifer's hand made contact with Hades…lower cheeks. More laughter rang out as the white haired ruler rose to his feet, towering over the tinier god with a look of cruel mirth in his eyes.

Hades was an avid collector of the beautiful. From Persephone and on, he demanded sacrifices and received such of gold, silver, carvings, and the most stunning of all creations. Man, woman, child, sentient, living, and dead, he possessed what other gods could only dream. His riches were the tears and pain of the living, and his joy was that of other's sorrow. It wasn't uncommon for him to dispatch Trieze or others of his forces—only few of whom he ever let leave his realm, for he was a selfish god who wanted nothing to ever escape him—to retrieve another beautiful subject for his harem.

"It's the two that bastard Death stole!" Hades cried out in his rage, foot stomping down as he spun to face Trieze. Still, the general did not rise, remaining as he was, muscles still clenched and head still down. "He took them from me once, and now he's going to try and take them from me again," he continued to rail, smacking another vase of Narcissus flowers from a table.

"Oh, honestly, how did he do that? He's been returned to Mneme to be her little sex toy again for what, month now? He hasn't even existed to them for over six months!" Lucifer sighed, sliding back down gracefully onto his seat. Hades hissed his disapproval.

"They _remember_ him…how can I convince them to come with _me_ if they remember _him_?" he snapped. Trieze's interest perked. Did this mean there was hope for Democritus yet? "I was supposed to get them this time!"

"And you would have, too, if it weren't for those meddling kids and their stupid dog," Lucifer replied with disinterested wave of his hand and a budding yawn. Hades literally bristled, blue hair lifting around him like a wet cat on steroids, lips pulling back in a snarl.

"_Mind your own business!_" he screeched, quickly turning on heel to once again face Trieze. "Stand up, boy! Don't just sit there like a worthless dog!" Quickly, Trieze rose, lifting his gaze to his Master's with as much respect as he could muster. People like Hades drove him mad, and he wasn't sure why Lucifer tolerated him when the man had the power to wipe them all out. But Trieze was sure there was some great reasoning behind it. After all…Lucifer never did anything without a reason. Kind of like Jehovah. Only…more confusing, and normally much more amusing.

"I have a task for you," Hades continued, eyes lifting to him. "I want you to trap them as I trapped Persephone." Trieze quirked an eyebrow, mirroring Lucifer's movement, both staring blankly.

"You want him to give them a pomegranate?" Lucifer deadpanned. "I doubt they'll eat it on the full moon like they're supposed to…honestly. What's he going to do? Walk up and force it down their throats?" Another hiss as Hades turned a ruffled, rage filled glare to his lover.

"Do you _ever_ shut up?" he demanded.

"Not really," Lucifer replied. Hades swung out to smack Lucifer again, only to have his wrist captured as another mirthful laugh lilted through the air, clashing with Hades rage filled growl. Idly, Trieze remembered days when his god was considered noble and calm, capable of handling anything with a cool head. Watching as Lucifer held the struggling Hades at bay, his eyes were locked on the swaying of the white strands, falling like a waterfall across dark skin. Ah, what sex could do to the mind.

Speaking of sex…an image of a naked Zechs seemed to lift into his head as his eyes raked over Lucifer's familiar white main, the same color and length of the angel's….

Quickly, he shook the image from his mind, turning his gaze back to his lord just as Hades ripped back, done but defeated, from the larger man. But not before Trieze noticed Lucifer's knowing grin in his direction. Did Lucifer catch that? Had Trieze not hidden his thoughts well enough?

"Democritus was enslaved because he took my sacrifices from me, and took their place so they wouldn't have to suffer," Hades stated with a huff, trying to gather his composure and interrupting Trieze's nervous thoughts. A calmness slowly started to sleep into Hades demeanor, leaving it clear that he had thought out his plan and he knew what he was doing. This was the Hades he remembered. This was the Hades he feared. "Now…he is to become free, leaving his two lovers he's fought so hard to protect as fair play once again." Trieze felt a touch of cold trail down his spine at the realization. He was right. Heero and Wufei were back on the playing field, just waiting to be taken into the chains they had escaped millennia's ago due to Duo's love for them. They would still be separated, even if Death were freed. Because either way…someone was going to be Hades torture toy. And if Duo couldn't do it…

This wasn't right.

"By the next full moon, Democritus should be in the process of his release," Hades continued, a slow, self satisfied smile forming on his lips. "What I want you to do is prepare them to come to me. Peel the skin from thirteen seeds of a pomegranate on that night, and slide the pulp and juice into a glass of red wine. They must drink it together at exactly midnight, and in your presence, for the binding to work. That way, when Democritus is freed, they will immediately be pulled into my realm…ready to be trained. Do you understand?" Trieze wanted to scream. This wasn't right. This _wasn't_ right. He knew what it was like to be kept so close but so far from the one you loved. To have the person your heart ached for within arms reach but never be able to touch them. To have Duo's sacrifice be played down to nothing, all because a spoiled god refused to let go of an ancient grudge?

Could he bring himself to hurt Wufei, the boy he respected so, in such a way? To do to them what he every day railed against the gods for doing to him and Zechs?

Swallowing hard, Trieze gave a slow, but obedient nod.

Did he have a choice?

"As you wish, my lord."

* * *

_All right, now I know this one is early, but what can I say? I couldn't help it! The part where I had written it down with pen and paper actually ended after Heero called Quatre and Trowa, so I'm truely just making this up as I go now. I hope you enjoy!_

_Oh, and thank you to everyone for reviewing the last chapter. I do hope you continue to enjoy as I post! I'm really starting to get back into the swing of this story again! -Sarin _


	14. Chapter 14: Gods Can Bleed

_Sorry this took so long, everyone. I just moved out of state, from Las Vegas to Kansas, and have been trying really hard to get settled. Also, I have to admit, there was a while there where I had no fracking clue how to end this. Well, the other night after reading "To Tame a Highland Warrior" I was struck by a very, very stunning image for this story, and suddenly, my writers block crumbled and here it is._

_I apologize to everyone, and even as I publish this, I'm working on putting the next few chapters from my writing notebook onto my computer. Now that I actually think I know how this will end, and actually have time to get it TO that end, I'm hoping the updates should start again! THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who waited! And without further ado...on with the story!_

**Chapter 14  
Gods Can Bleed**

* * *

Mneme slid her hands adoringly over the liquid mercury, fingertips tracing small circles along the flushed lines of her cheeks in the clear reflection offered. After feeding, she was always baffled by her own beauty. The rosy complexion of her face, the smooth, cool, milky paleness of her own body. It contrasted with the striking blush that she only produced in reaction to the blood and pain of her pet. And it was perfection. Aphrodite could claim to be the goddess of love and the most beautiful of women created, but Mneme knew the truth. There was neither man nor beast alive that could compare to her own radiance once she drank from the well that was Democritus' agony.

Once she cast aside the cursed, frigid coldness Zeus had given her and taken Death's heat for her own. He had so much passion and life to give…so much emotion and so much warmth. The ice that seemed to surround Mneme's heart was lit ablaze with every ounce of pain she gave him, and it made her feel high on the intensity and depth of Duo's feelings. Senses and sensations she was cursed to forever live without, experiencing vicariously through the touch of the memories she was surrounded with had for so long seemed out of reach. But not anymore. Not now that she had Democritus. Not now that she could drain his memories and emotions and take them for herself. Through Death, she found life. And she was addicted.

A slow smile lit the corners of crimson lips. Never would she let Democritus go. Not now that she knew the true value and exhilaration of feeling. Not know that she had a taste of love, hate, and everything else that came with being human. A soft sigh lilted from her, filled with content as it drifted to the mists of memories. Behind her, the soft blood filled gurgling of her pet provided a sort of ambiance to her giddy and vain ponderings. People believed that gods couldn't bleed. How wrong they were, she thought with a smile.

As her fingers slipped down to trace another worshipping path across her reflection, the image beneath them wavered. Brows furrowing, she jerked her hand away and watched with consternation as the traitorous viewing pool brought up a scene without her command. She attempted to change it back, ordering it with her powers to return to just showing her face, but like a determined child it continued, easily out maneuvering her. Normally, she would feel rage at this point. But something told her to watch. And as she did, the slow outline appeared of Solorick, AKA, Solo…Loki's high priest.

Giving a huff, she crossed her arms in a manner resembling a five-year-old. Her delicate slipper clad foot gave a not so delicate stomp to the ground as she grimaced.

"What manner of trickery is this?" she demanded, bottom lip pressing out in distaste. A warm breeze in the chilled wind brushed across her shoulder, forcing the mist to retract from her as if fearful of the coming heat. Slowly, a form took shape as a being solidified by her side.

Red and black hair like tones of partially cooled lava whipped with life around the pale white face of the god. Eyes to match the moving tendrils seemed to flow with their roiling heat, lined with thick black coal that caused them stand in even starker contrast to the marble that was his face. Onyx lips were drawn back in a style more becoming of an angry dog than a 6'5 deity. But Mneme knew the frightening expression for what it really was—an attempt at a smile.

Long claws tapping across the pale skin of his arms, Loki took a slow step to stand by the goddess's side, dark leather pants creaking slightly as he moved.

"What are you looking at?" he slithered, forked tongue touching across cruelly sharpened canines as he spoke. Mneme shuddered as the utter heat of him, seeming to channel the flames of the Hell Loki was normally cursed to, piercing through her frozen flesh to bite her bones.

"What manner of foolery is this, Loki?" she snapped angrily, her voice standing in stark contradiction the apprehension the old Norse god always made her feel. Slowly, his magnum eyes lifted from the now steaming mercury to bore their scorching stare into hers. Hate rose, mingled with a touch of awe as she stood a helpless captive of those orbs. What would she give to be so powerful? Why Loki was never more outward with his abilities—more flamboyant or controlling, she would never know.

"Because irony needs not a loud voice, and cruelty is more potent when whispered," he purred softly, his smile transforming into something seductive as he read the questions posed at back of her mind. She resisted the urge growl at his arrogance. How she hated when this man did things like that.

"Well, Mr. Psychic," she replied sarcastically, forcing her gaze away to stare back down to the viewing pool. Looking at Solo, the liquid, the rim of the bowl. Looking at anything but those eyes. "Mind explaining to me why your high priest's image is in my mirror?" she snapped.

"It's your mirror," he smirked. "I would imagine…"

"I didn't do it and you know it!" she suddenly screeched. Her voice echoed off the walls, a blitz of small particles stylized like crystals erupting into the air as she bristled. The fading echoes were answered by the clunking of chains and a terrified whimper from the momentarily forgotten pet. Loki let out a hiss. Leaning back on his heels, he gazed towards the room the boy lay in, studying the bloodied, shivering form through a crack in the curtains.

The once proud, rambunctious Death lay tangled in the mass of his own hair, caked with the dark red liquid that was drying around his body and covered him so fully he was nearly unrecognizable. A sick grin licked Loki's features. He felt a touch of sympathy for the boy, but it was a fleeting feeling, and nothing showed through to the woman who stood before him.

Black, soulless, desperate eyes lifted to stare blankly out at him through Death's chestnut mane as he stared out to the tall god. Pink lips parted as if to beg for help as tears streaked visible paths down mottled and bruised cheeks, but no cry emerged. The only noise that escaped was the sound of blood bubbling in his throat.

Loki moved back to block the image out. The nail marks, embedded like stab wounds in his chest. The lash marks, baring ribs to air….

"Your harsh treatment never fails to impress me," he stated dryly, disguising easily his distaste behind his disinterest. Laughter tinkled like bells as Mneme fanned herself, apparently finding the statement flattering. Tugging on the violet crystal that contained the Death's soul around her neck, the batted her eyelashes.

"Oh, come now, Loki. Stop dwindling," she giggled. Loki resisted the urge to snarl. What was it with women?

"You see, I brought that up for a reason," he murmured cockily, quickly getting on with the point so he could return home to his wife. Motioning to the viewing pool, he gave a lazy yawn. "I figured you could use a warning…" Mneme paused in the dramatics, the prized pink color draining from her face as fear flooded her.

"Warning?" she squeaked, then coughed. "Warning?" she tried again, this time more in control of her voice as she silently cursed herself for being unable to better hide her emotions.

"I fear your pet may soon need to leave. My priest has been rather…nosy…"

Turning her eyes down, she watched, terror melting into rage as the three pilots slowly approached the "therapist's" front door. Inside sat a silent Wufei with Solo, and before them were scattered papers filled with notes about the forgotten pilot of the 02 Gundam…

In the other room, Duo listened to the conversation, barely able to make out the words through the ringing in his ears from his head wounds. All he could do was hope that Loki's appearance may stand as a sign. A sign that maybe Chris had succeeded. Or maybe he had failed. Maybe he was finally going to be put to death…? Yes…death…all he wanted now was for a swift end to stop the pain. Something to make him stop existing.

He knew he should be fighting to stay strong, to get free, but this time had been different. She had done things to him, been crueler to him, than he had known was possible, and he could no longer bring himself to care about his own escape. Now he just craved a way to make it stop. A way to never wake up…

A way for the pain to end….

_**oOoOo**_

Space stretched. The world fell and ripped apart as three dimensions turned to four, molecules gathering and forming where none had been before. Breaking all laws of physics, atoms popped into existence as mass was created from the empty, hollow plains of space, capturing the writhing spirit in it's torrent and forcing it into the prison of a physical form. A scream wrenched through the growing hurricane of particles, sucked up in a place where noise had no meaning. Skin stretched across materializing bone. Sweat beaded from freshly made glands. Sensations of pain, chills, and heat licked across freshly made nerves as muscle formed around it. When the chaos of creation became too much for the entirely too conscious being it was centered on, he thought he would explode. Pressure formed in his head as the demonic power lurched and sizzled inside of the skull of a body meant only for beings without the abilities to transcend the realms of god and men. It threatened to make him erupt. To shatter or break him.

Wind whipped around the helpless form as the stretching of existence seemed to suddenly compress, carrying with it the howling of muted sound and senses that only humans possessed. Cursing at the entrapment once again of his normally powerful form, he tried to will himself into the wind, but found it impossible. He was stuck inside a body of flesh and blood. Stuck inside his bones.

And then everything stopped.

Trieze Kushrenada lifted tired eyes as the weight of his physical body hit him like a god bolt to the chest. Groaning in pain, he struggled to move his limbs, but was greeted instead by a stinging pain. Every atom seemed to protest at their new arrangement, sending electrical volts shooting through him as they attempted to break apart and send his Earthly form scattering. Gritting his teeth, he felt his mutinous body twitch, causing even more tremors of torment to resonate through out him. This was why all creations started with a single cell. Because of the inevitable, volatile, and always excruciating reaction that came when the body was crammed together. Grown particles sparked with energy as they fought to pull away, but made even worse was the even more overwhelming force of the conscious mind that joined it. It was the cruelest of punishments, but Hades had no mind for mercy, even unto his servants. If they loved him enough, they would gladly suffer for him…

…right?

His head reeling from sensory overload—the sense of smell, taste, touch…everything that came with being a human and lost to a higher being—he tried to take slow gulps of air to stop the panging and provide some type of relief to his roiling stomach. Had he anything throw up, he probably would have by now, and he thanked Lucifer for small favors. What an irony it would have been to be recreated, and die by drowning in his own vomit…after all, even if that blasted Nataku Gundam had been standing over him at that moment, he doubted he could have moved to even make an obscene gesture towards it, much less be able to roll over to stop himself from choking.

He resisted the urge to curse Hades, knowing such an effort would not only increase his nausea, but probably piss off the god even more. After all, he had already banished him to this cursed form so Trieze would be unable to return until his job of capturing the two ex pilots was complete. Which made no sense to the general. Wouldn't he be able to better function and threaten if he were able to show just what he was, and frighten the two into submission? But Trieze had not questioned. For it wasn't Hades idea, but Lucifer's. And because the god he so admired had been the one to say it should be so, Trieze had gone along, trusting the King of Lies more than he trusted his own master. He let out a shaky sigh. Maybe after this experience, he would begin to doubt even the fallen angel's judgment.

'_Are you all right, Mislead?'_ came the low, sonorous voice of Lucifer, murmured like a lovers whisper through his head.

"I hurt." He wasn't sure if the words were only a thought or if he managed to groan them through the rising stomach acid in his throat. It didn't matter. Lucifer heard them either way.

'_I know,'_ Lucifer whispered softly, voice filled with a fatherly understanding that warmed the general beyond explanation. _"But trust me, my tragedy, it will stop hurting soon. _Everything_ will stop hurting soon…."_ Trieze winced as he peered through the fog in his vision, body running cold at the words. No physical sign of Lucifer could be seen. Then again, he couldn't see anything clearly at the moment. Just hazy blurs of green and brown earth at the side of his head with jutting gray structures that seemed to match the sky above.

"Where am I?" he murmured, this time aloud. His tongue was thick and swollen, and the coppery taste of blood stunned him. Experimentally, he ran licked across the roof of his mouth and lips, but was unable to locate the source.

'_On your grave, of course,'_ came the silken reply, filled with amusement. As if he should have known…Trieze grunted as one elegant brow quirked. He forced his vision to clear, straining to see his surroundings more closely.

"Why?" he half demanded, half rasped as the tombstone slowly took shape before his eyes.

'_Because this is where your princess prayed to find you….'_

"Who is that?" The familiar voice of the child crashed through him, bringing every fiber of his being to stark alert as his heart skipped a beat in pain. Struggling for control of his limbs, he tried to force his body to roll, to get a good look at the source of such an angelic noise, but was unsuccessful in even making a finger twitch.

"Mary," an older woman hissed, "Stay back!" Could it be? Was it really his princess? His daughter?

Heavy boots crunched across the fallen leaves as Lady Une made her way to the man collapsed back on Trieze's grave. His head lolled as sandy blond hair skewed his features, but it didn't matter. Rage filled her and she pondered sinking her military issue, steel toed boots into those muscular hips until they broke. How _dare_ a drunk pass out in a graveyard, much less on the General's grave! Adding insult to injury was not just the fact that the man was stark naked, but that it happened to be on Trieze's on birthday, which made Une's mood that much more sour. Grinding her teeth, she looked back to make sure Mariemaia didn't have to see her father's resting place so desecrated. Assured the girls eyes were still covered by her own small hands, she moved to stand above the bastard…

…only to stop dead when she saw the trademark rose tattoo over his heart, pierced through by the double bowed bow and arrow…and that strange golden arm band that he never once removed….

Blood running cold, she moved to straddle the shaking, gasping frame, feet planted on either side of his exposed abdomen. She dropped to one knee and was struck immediately by the heat emanating from his flesh, especially on the overall damp and chilled day. Roughly, she grasped at his face, pulling it up to gaze at him through the mess of golden hair.

Realty crumbled.

"Don't touch me!" he growled out violently, body twitching and convulsing as he resisted the urge to scream. The touch on his sensitive skin, still not fully stable in its creation, felt as if it would shatter his brittle bones. Even the brush of her long hair across his cheeks felt like the sharpest of knives serrating into his skin. But Lady Une apparently couldn't resist her own startled outburst, and her shriek added to the already blinding pressure in his head.

Une leapt back, flying off of him and stumbling backwards, skittering across the ground as she tried to squelch the cry. Deep amber eyes glared as he writhed in pain, struggling to move.

"That didn't help, Lady," he growled out, panting as his hands finally seemed to listen to him, coming up to clutch at his ears and block out some of the noise.

"Daddy…" Mary whispered in shock. Une snapped out of her daze, quickly pulling off her jacket to throw it over the general's more private areas. He hissed, as if the fabric too seemed to hurt to the touch, but Une wouldn't relent. Better he hurt than Mary have any image of _that_ emblazoned on her memory.

"Trieze, is that really you?" Une asked. Familiar eyes slowly turned to delve into her as an equally unforgettable smile twitched the corner of dry, full lips.

"Lady Une…do you doubt the impossible?" Albeit pained, that voice was smooth and confident as ever, removing all questions in her mind as to who it was. But how? How could it be possible? He was dead…

Even in the back of her mind the lingering, haunting voice whispered as it had so many times "They never found his body…" But why now? Where had he been? What had he been doing? What about during the time his own daughter had tried to follow his lead? What had stopped him from appearing then? Why now? And why…why _naked?_ She was consumed by the barrage of demands, and could only watch helplessly as he struggled to sit up, shaking in what appeared to be pain. A slight whimper touched his lips as he dragged the coat up to cover himself more fully. He blinked heavily, clarity slowly gracing him.

'_Why naked?'_ he mentally demanded of Lucifer. _'Couldn't you have at least given me some underwear? Boxers? Tighty-wighties? For the love of god, even a_ jockstrap_ or something?'_

'_Now Trieze…honestly. We all know how good that butt of yours looks in a jockstrap, and while I will keep that in mind for the next time, it's so much more fun this way! And I really love seeing that uptight little Une of yours blush every time she sees how well endowed you are...'_

Trieze resisted the urge to hiss, fisting the jacket tighter over his groin. He felt suddenly bashful by the blunt wording, and tried to will himself into a pair of pants. Of course, it didn't work. He was helpless as a human….

'_For starters, there will be no next time. And beyond that, you're a dickhead,'_ he replied hatefully, the only sign of the internal argument with the pitch black god the scowl that formed on his lips.

'_Why, thank you…I do try…'_

"Lady, how about we find some clothes so I don't feel like a pedophile when I hug my daughter," he suggested, trying to take back control of his mind and the situation. Une just continued to stare, white as a ghost. "And you, Ms. Mary…." Turning his gaze to his daughter, he felt his heart break at the sight of the tears streaking her cheeks as she clutched the wheels of her chair in a death grip. He had planned to wait until properly clad to show any too forward signs of affection, but the sight of her grief made those plans crumble. "Come here," he ordered gruffly, voice thick and nearly breaking with the weight of his own emotions. Timidly she advanced, watching untrustingly as she moved to side. She assessed him a moment, taking in the ragged look of his features and the twigs tangled in his hair from sitting on the ground. She drew in a shaky breath, then suddenly launched herself from the chair and into his open and waiting arms. They tumbled back together in a hug.

Keeping one hand gripped tightly on the coat, he gathered his daughter against him, holding her desperately to his chest. Shoulders shaking with sobs, she clung to him as if afraid he may disappear once again. And he would…she just didn't need to know how brief his time was here. For some reason, Lucifer had decided he should see her, had given him this chance to hold his beloved princess in his arms. The one gift he had craved more than to once again be with Zechs. And he would not squander this chance. His time was limited until the next full moon. And he would fill that time with as many memories of his daughter as he could. Swallowing back his own tears, he tightened his grip on her, and gave silent thanks for small blessings.

He wished he could do more for her. Tell her the truth of his life and her creation. Show her that she wasn't a forgotten child by her mother, but instead a cherished being that Zechs never knew he helped to make. How many times had he banished the impossible dream of having a home with Zechs and their daughter, away from the bloodshed and slavery that was his eternal life? He had created her, from their essence, in the sea of birth, and granted her all the blessings he could give. He had done it in an act of fading hope, taking all that was good from him and his love and forming one being. No one knew but he and Lucifer of the truth of her birth. No one knew it was one desperate attempt to create a balanced, free being who would transcend the earthly realm and become something more. His last attempt to hold onto a life he could never keep. The only good thing he could ever hope to do in a life of ruthless murder his master forced him to lead.

How many times had he wished to have just one day spent with her and Zechs in peace?

But those desires were impossible. Wasted energy spent on things that could never come about. Even now, the metal spikes scraping his now human bones in the arm band reminded him of his eternal captivity. So long as he wore it, his life would never be his. And he had no right to dream of peace when it wasn't even his life to dream about.

He was created a slave, and he would die a slave. His one gift he could give his daughter was the gift of freedom. The less she knew about her father's damnation, the better.

Pulling away, he stroked his hand over her wet cheek and realized he too had begun to cry. A sad laugh came from his lips as he pressed their foreheads together.

'_Why, Lucifer? Why did you make her see…she's already lost me once. This is cruel,'_ he stated hopelessly, staring into her loving eyes.

'_Because, every child has a right to hear "I love you" one last time, Mislead. To know their father is not disgraced by them…'_ The pain in Lucifer's voice was the type born solely from experience, and Trieze was tempted to pursue it. But instead, he just pulled his daughter back against him and cradled her to his shivering form in a possessive hold, despite the still shooting ache such contact sent through him.

"I love you," he whispered fiercely into her hair. "And I am so, so, so incredibly proud of you, Princess. _So_ proud…"

Une watched as Trieze and Mary rocked back and forth in each others arms, the man whispering assurances to Mariemaia that the girl had wanted to hear from him for years. She would make demands later, she told herself. Even as something in her screamed that was useless.

Somewhere in her, she knew there would be no later….

_**oOoOo**_

Lucifer closed his eyes against the pain that filled his chest, fisting his hand against the window of his chambers which he used to view the mortal realm.

"You have no right, Hades," he hissed past the growing lump in his throat. Black skin rippled as he took in a sharp and shaky breath, knees feeling weak. Hate made his muscles twitch as he thought of the arrogant blue bastard who caused this all to happen. Lifting sky colored orbs to the glass, he conjured the image of the white haired Zechs and splayed his fingers over the projection as if he could somehow reach through and touch that precious face.

"I swear to you, Gabriel…I will make this right. For our grandson, I will make this all right…"

* * *

_Yes, yes, yes...it's long. Hope you all don't mind. I just had so much to fit into here :-) _

_Please comment! I haven't written anything since "His Eyes" mini fic for Cantarella, and even that sucked : lol_


	15. Chapter 15: Distrust and Discovery

**Chapter 15  
Distrust and Discovery**

* * *

Trowa settled down on the couch beside Quatre, staring idly at the moon light filtering through the house the two…no, he corrected himself…the _three_ lovers had built. The one who they had thought to not exist had pitched in too, leaving a slightly eerie feeling to the room they sat in. Frightening to think that someone who by all means shouldn't be real had helped to build this home. Within one day, Trowa's world had shifted, and what had previously been just a place his two friends lived in now stood as a memorial to a soldier everyone else had forgotten. How many planks of wood had he touched? How many nails had he driven in? How much of this building was his design?

How much of their lives, of this planet, had Duo shaped? How many people or things had he affected—the results of his actions still there, but the action itself long fading from their recollections…?

Were the memories locked in the wood and nails the reason the green eyed man could never bring himself to visit his two friends?

Trowa shuddered. All those tales and stories, the lost and fleeting memories that plagued the European late at night, and the whisper of his mind telling him something was missing…all of it was right. Slipping his fingers around Quatre's, they sat in Heero's house in quiet contemplation, the Arabian idly fingering the blanket Trowa had wrapped around his shoulder's earlier that night.

After discovering the writing, the two had rushed to Heero's side. They had showed him the cross and viewed the tagging on the bottom side of the cupboard with a reverie normally reserved for sightings of the Virgin Mary. But this was far more real than anything that had been seen on a piece of toast. This they held in their hands. This they struggled to recall. This they mulled over as they tried to figure it out; tried to put some logical explanation to something so utterly illogical to begin with. Tried to fit it in to their realm of reality as they knew it, only to come out with one answer—reality as they knew it had to be a lie. Just how could someone be wiped out of existence?

Chris had set up a meeting with all of them the next morning to discuss more details. Until then, he had suggested they get some sleep and keep each other company. Quietly, and in conspiratorial tones he had whispered that it was wise to not leave Heero to his own devices. It was clear there was some undertone of meaning that indicated more than just migraines and the man's own distress would plague him, but they were too frightened to press and ask what other things would bother Heero in the night. Instead, they had consented to guarding him. It wasn't as if they would have left him to his own machinations. After all that had just happened, he needed the two of them as much as they needed him.

"How is he doing?" Quatre asked as he looked up to Trowa. Bringing their interlocked fingers to his lips, Trowa placed a loving kiss over Quatre's knuckles, leaning back against the overstuffed couch. Tugging the blond closer to him, he tucked the boys head under his chin as he took a deep breath of his hair, taking comfort in the familiar scent. It was the only real thing that Trowa could assure himself of in this hellish nightmare of disappearing acts and strange, aloof feelings that seemed to occur more and more. All of this was forcing him to come to terms with something in him he had never spoken of. Secrets he had never quiet understood why he had. He was questioning himself more and more, and starting to notice a disturbing trend in his own body and mind that he used to discount as fancies. But he couldn't anymore. And he was starting to scare himself…

"Dead asleep," he replied, forcing his mind off of himself, and focusing instead on his friend. This was no time to wallow in the maze of his own hell.

"And the cross?"

"He wouldn't let it go. Had it in a death grip even after he faded," Trowa stated. What he didn't tell him was that he dare not touch the necklace. Dare not open up the doorway to things it might do to him—things it might make him see. He resisted the urge to shudder once again, or get up and take another one of the pills the Preventer psychiatrist had put him on. He just grasped the blond tighter, lips brushing across the pale flesh of the Arabian's fingers. Quatre scowled thoughtfully, gnawing lightly at the inside of his cheek.

"Trowa?"

"Hm?"

"Do you think it'll come after us?" he wondered, voicing the fear he had held in him since the moment the world had broken. Trowa looked down to him, studying the pale features of his lover before he shook his head, following his gaze to study the patch of moonlight skirting across the deep red, oriental rug thrown across the wood floor. He mimicked his lovers nervous twitching by gnashing his inner lip, trying hard to keep away the dizzying feeling that was pooling in his stomach, screaming with pictures he couldn't put words to.

"No," he forced out, cheek laying flat against the ruffled blond mass of hair. "I…I think whatever this is," he ventured on, even as the coldness of his own mind unfolded with strange pictures, "is solely after them. I think it went after Duo for a reason, and it also has something in for Heero and Wufei…I think we're just bystanders…whatever happens to us is inconsequential." Quatre shifted, pulling back and looking to his lover with beetled brows, studying him closely.

"Why do you say that? How would you know?" he asked. Trowa flushed, trying to resist the urge to tug at his hair. A tale-tale sign he was nervous or lying. Instead, he did his best to portray innocent nonchalance, gazing out of the window and into the starry night.

"I don't know…just a feeling, I guess," he half lied.

Quatre stared at his lover, feeling shut out, perturbed by the sudden shut down of feelings from Trowa. He could tell the man had suddenly closed himself off, and it bothered him. What _was it_, behind those green eyes, that suddenly had the Arabian feeling suspicious and scared? What did he know? Not for the first time in his life, he felt like the outsider looking in, unable to crack the code on the one person his heart had screamed to read and fix. Swallowing hard, he suddenly snagged Trowa's face between his fingers, forcing him to look him in the eyes.

"Trowa?" he stated in a measured tone.

"Yes?" the European replied, voice small.

"You didn't have anything to do with his disappearance?" Quatre questioned curiously. Trowa blinked, before green eyes turned wide with rage. He jerked away from Quatre, surging to his feet.

"Why the hell would you say that?" he snapped.

"Because! How could you know that it only wants to hurt them if you don't know more about it?" Quatre accused. "Besides, you just cut yourself off from me. Why? What are you hiding?" the blond practically yelled, fists clenching against the cushions. Trowa's mouth dropped open, body shaking with rage. _Please,_ his mind begged. _Please don't make me tell you…_

"How could you ever think I would turn my back on them? They're my friends!"

"Yet you never ONCE came to comfort Heero or Wufei when this was happening!" Quatre shot back, angered that Trowa had dodged the questions.

_Because I couldn't touch them. You don't understand!_ his heart wanted to scream. Instead, he just grit his teeth.

"Fine…fuck off, Quatre," he growled. "I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

With that, he stormed out of the room. Left alone, the blond dragged his nails down his legs and let himself finally release the torrent of tears that had been building. Why hadn't Trowa answered? Why hadn't he done more to clear his name? What was he hiding?

Left alone with only his fears, Quatre clutched the blanket around his shoulders.

"What's going on?" he whispered hoarsely to the night. "Trowa…what are you hiding? Why won't you trust me…?"

_**oOoOo**_

The singing called to him. Drew him from the nothingness of his dreams and back into the dark realm where he had been cast into so many nights in a row. Clutching the cross tighter in his hold, he drew a deep, fortifying breath. The voice that had whimpered and called for him night after night echoed around him. This time though, it murmured a soft song in a strange language, filled with even more misery than the pleas had been before. Heero knew he had to reach him. Something in him screamed that he was running out of time to save him.

To save Duo.

He closed his eyes and prayed that he could move, once more recalling how horrid it had been to stand, forced to the spot and unable to even twitch as he listened to the screams. Since all of this had begun, it had been the same…like it would change tonight? Should he even try? But he knew he couldn't just stand there…he had to fight. Even if he didn't win. Swallowing his pride, he readied his will for the struggle against the invisible binds that always held him motionless. His muscled clenched. His body prepared. And with one burst of energy, he forced his limbs to jerk forward against the barrier he knew would be there….

…and proceeded to fall flat on his face.

For a moment, he couldn't move, the shock was so extreme. Experimentally he turned his head to look at the hand by his face. He twitched the fingers, then stretched them. Astonishment filled him as he slowly, very slowly, pushed himself to his knees. The sharp edges of the cross bit into his other palm as he stood on wobbly legs.

"I can move," he gasped in surprise.

"It's about damn time…"

The familiar voice of the strange man…Zarek, was it? echoed through the abyss, but when he turned to see from whence it came, there was nothing. He was tempted to call out to him, but his attention was caught once again by the low, slow and sonorous rise of a voice that he now recognized to the core of his soul as being Duo's. Tucking the golden crucifix around his own neck, he began the walk he had wanted to make for so long in the direction he heard it coming from, and as he did, he could feel what seemed like the world warping around him. Cool wind brushed his arm, and the blackness peeled back to give way to a ground of dark violet with a sky covered in mist, tinted green.

But that wasn't what held his attention.

It was the crumpled, bleeding body that did. The blank eyes that shone a pitch black where a gorgeous amaryllis should have been. His heart skipped a beat as he watched the boy collapse forward in tears, singing hopelessly to himself the words of the song "Ave Maria" as he hugged the ground. Chestnut hair was matted and mangled, stuck into the wounds that revealed muscle and bone where the pale, unmarred white flesh he had come to so love had once been.

Memories flooded him. The way those gorgeous locks had felt brushing against his skin the first time they had sex. How passionate the boy had been as he rocked back and forth in Heero's arms, begging for him to give him a reason to keep on living. At the time, the Japanese man had thought those were only the pleas of a young boy. Now he knew—it was of a man searching for some reason to keep putting up with whatever was after him. Had Duo known even then? Had he understood even on the night they had caught Wufei watching them and had motioned for the other man to join, that soon, he would leave the two alone? Is that why had been so adamant, on that cold evening filled with new passion and timid touches between the virgin dragon and the starving Heero, that the two find comfort with each other?

"It's better this way…in case one of us dies, we have the other to depend on," he had rationalized. "Plus…you two have wanted each other for so long…and I've wanted you both…. Do you want me, Wufei?"

Wufei had nodded in astonished desire, and Heero had felt a possessive need drag through him. That night had felt so right. Like he had been born for that moment. For that time when he would hold them both in his arms and hear their cries. Drown out the horrors of the mission in the pleasure and the comfort they provided. As if he had been born to be with them…

How could he have forgotten? All this time, they had blamed "Post Traumatic Stress Disorder" on the reason that Wufei and Heero couldn't remember how they had come to be together. The truth…Duo was the cause of everything good in his life. Duo was the reason Heero lived. Breathed. The reason he and Wufei had fallen in love.

Duo was their everything…

Taking a step forward, he let out a choked cry as he attempted to say the name that refused to surface. The body jerked in surprise, rolling back and into a crouching position, staring with wide doe eyes at the approach of the ex pilot. The savage, vicious look the battered boy cast towards Heero made the Japanese man suddenly nervous. Did Duo not remember him? Was whatever strange amnesia that had hooked its insidious claws into Wufei and the others plaguing him as well? For a moment, he considered dropping down to his knees and trying to reason, else turning and running, the other looked so ferocious. But those thoughts were allayed slowly the well guarded terror and struggling defense melted into disbelieving astonishment.

"Heero…what are you doing here?" Duo rasped. Adrenaline drained away from him quickly, leaving behind the overwhelming exhaustion Duo always felt under Mneme's service. Falling to his side, he caught and balanced himself precariously on his arms, ignoring the pain that begged him to lie down and never get up again. Instead, he focused on the emotion slowly rising in him…Mneme always did a wonderful job of draining him, leaving him feeling empty and weak, with nothing left but the physical pain. Yet even now, when he thought he was completely numb after she had so thoroughly raped his mind and body, he found himself feeling baffled and hopeful; overwhelmed and astonished.

How could it be that the dark haired man was here? How had Heero managed to sneak into Duo's sanctuary—the realm of the God of Death—during the small break that Mneme had given him while she "dealt with pressing matters"? In truth, he knew she was off trying to seduce some god to help her ride her high of his emotions to a straining, breaking peak, until she was drained and he was replenished, and she could start the torture all over again. But even though she was distracted with finding a nightly pleasure mate, there still should have been no way for him to appear in his realm. The only way a mortal could enter was if a god had granted him access…

…but who would have permitted it?

He tried to shift to a more comfortable position, only to hiss as pain blinded him and his elbow buckled, sending him tumbling to the floor. Before he could impact, though, gentle hands grabbed him and lifted his emaciated form, pulling him back against a familiar chest and into a warm embrace. Dark eyes widened in surprise as Duo looked up blearily to Heero, now poised behind him and cradling him in loving arms.

"I…I tried to come sooner…but…" Heero couldn't finish, shaking his head. "I…somehow, I forgot…" A strained, but still positively devastating smile tugged at the American's features as he proceeded to pull him down and give him a soft kiss. The simple touch ignited in Heero all the longing and need he had felt since Duo's disappearance, and with the boundary of suppressed memories now somehow shattered, he clutched the boy to him in a hold that spoke volumes of his emotions, trying to portray through the brush of lips all the love he felt for the boy in his arms. He willed himself not to cry, silently praying to whatever god that the moment would never end…

"You always were forgetful," Duo teased, slowly pulling back from the touch. "Remember that time you forgot Wufei's favorite color? I mean for the love of god…it was the same blue as his pants…" At the snort Heero gave him, Duo gave a lilting laugh and shook his head, nipping Heero's scowling lower lip as he reveled in the joy of just _being_. "Honestly? I knew you would…I told you that you would," Duo murmured almost smugly. Nuzzling their noses together, Duo let the smile grown, relaxing back in peace in Heero's arms.

It was amazing…Mneme had positively drained him of everything. He knew she had…she had been so vicious after finding out he had fallen in love and wanted to leave. So cruel and so thorough…worse than ever before. All of his need, his love, his desire and desperation had been dragged forcefully from him and into the goddess's body. He had been left a hollow husk, with nothing left to give to her. She had drained him so extremely that he had thought it impossible to ever feel again…he had been certain he never would heal. And without the ability to care, he had just collapsed and let the pain of his wounds comfort him, positive that no touch of humanity would curse his wretched soul….

…until Heero had appeared.

Then the emotions returned, as if never taken. The love came back stronger, his body seemed to fill with all the desires he had thought would take weeks to reclaim, if ever at all…and he wasn't sure if he was happy or scared. Heero was there. That meant he remembered him, and maybe Duo could be freed. But at the same time, it also meant Mneme could feed sooner, which always hurt…

He settled for the moment on happy, unwilling to sacrifice his time with Heero for anything. Snuggling back tighter in the arms, he ignored the way his wounds screamed in protest of the movement and the contact, instead relishing in the heat of his lover's body. It pierced the freezing cold that he always felt after leaving Mneme, melting the ice around his aching heart and rekindling the flame of hope. God…just touching Heero made him want to be alive…to be free….

"You knew you would be taken?" Heero asked, breaking Duo's happy silence. Grimacing, he glared up to him a moment. Why did Heero always have to go and ruin the moment with such serious questions? Killjoy.

"Yes…" Duo sighed a little frustrated, unsure if it was his own guilt at not telling them before he was taken about the curse, or actual sorrow at having the moment interrupted. How rare was it in this cruel life he was damned to live had he ever felt a loving hand? Even in his free youth, his parents had discarded and forgotten him…until he had found Heero and Wufei, he had never known a loving touch. Never known a gentle kiss. Not even the first time he met them, when he was cursed because of his need for them, had they treated him so kindly. All he wanted was the comfort Death was never permitted. A soft touch that was far too foreign. Heero, as if sensing the need, showered soft kisses across tear stained cheeks, gently rubbing aching arms in a possessive embrace.

"Duo…what's going on? What is all of this?" Heero asked quietly, searching desperately for some answers. "Why did they take you away from me?" Duo cringed, squeezing his eye tighter as he fought against his own urge to scream. He wanted to tell him, but he couldn't! He couldn't risk them getting hurt any longer. Weakly, he tried to pull away. To break the spell of comfort that offered him absolution if he just opened up and let him know. How easy would it be to finally tell someone what had really happened? But what if he just made things worse? Struggling to break free, he succeeded only in making Heero hold him tighter. "Don't run away from me, Duo. I love you, and I am _not_ letting you hide this from me now. I want you back, and you have to tell me how I can get you out of here," he snapped. Duo sighed, falling back against him in defeat.

"Heero…I don't think I can say…it'll break the rules…" he murmured hopelessly. A low growl rumbled the hard body he was pressed against, and the fallen god felt himself shudder with a mix between apprehension and desire the noise aroused in him.

"What rules?" the Japanese man practically screamed. He was getting so sick of hearing "It's against the rules" from everywhere. First Zarek, and now Duo? What rules could possibly exist that would _condone_ this, or at least not do everything possible to _fix_ this? This wasn't a game, for god's sake! This was their lives!

"The rules of the curse…" Duo replied meekly, hands coming up to grasp Heero's wrists, praying that his anger wouldn't make him pull away. Despite his earlier attempts at escape, Duo needed to know that Heero wouldn't turn away now. That no matter what happened, Heero would hold onto him and not turn his back on him…that for once in his life, he wouldn't have to fight alone. Pressing back into him desperately, he shifted in his hold to hide his face against his chest. Once again seeming to sense his need, Heero tightened his hold and lifting himself and curling around the brown haired boy, shielding his lover's body with his own. The feeling was overwhelming, causing Duo's lips to part with a touch of shock as the smell of peppermint and spice hit him full on, drowning him in the presence that was purely Heero. Looking up to him surprised, the god of death resisted the urge to whimper, feeling like a school girl instead of an ancient deity. Heero gazed back down to him, deep blue eyes shining fiercely, filled with energy that Duo couldn't muster, saying quietly what Duo ached to hear.

_I will fight for you,_ they said…and Duo knew it was true, then. While the first incarnation he had fallen in love with, back in Egypt, would never fight the gods, this Heero… _his_ Heero, would face down the devil himself to have him back. And with the way things were looking, Duo seriously believed that would be the case.

"You'll fight for me, right?" Duo whispered, lying trusting and almost lifeless in the others arms. Heero gave him a reassuring smile.

"Until time ends, I will. I would do anything to have you back," he swore. "But I need to know what's going on, Duo…. Can you tell me what the rules are?" he pleaded. Duo sighed, ready to shoot him down and tell him no, but something in the back of his head clung to hope, screaming for him to at least ponder the possibilities. So instead, he sat quietly a moment, thinking the question over.

"Technically, it's a part of the curse…I'd have to tell you the curse to tell you the rules…" he finally explained.

"Then tell me, damn it," Heero beseeched desperately, pressing his face into the mass of chestnut hair on top of Duo's head. "Give me something to go on so I can get you back, please, koi…Wufei and I need you. You have no idea what hell it's been since you've been gone…we don't need to remember you to know that you should be with us. Please give us a way to bring you back…."

Duo felt his heart break at the words, his fingers tangling into the soft shirt of his lover. He wanted to tell him…to tell him everything…but he wasn't allowed to….

But even as he prepared to say that, something in his subconscious felt like it were jumping up and down, throwing a tantrum in hopes of getting noticed. It railed against his conscious mind, screaming, "Hey! Gloomy! Over here! Look what I found!" His brows lifted…could he?

Slowly, he ran the curse over in his head, turning it this way and that, studying each word as it was said. There were so many stipulations, so many things prohibiting him from saying a word. But then he grinned. So simple, but such a downfall. A part of the curse had been attached when the deal was cut with his parents that would allow him to return to Earth for any wars they needed his help on. It stated that "As long as he is under a period of release from Mneme's servitude, soul in tact, and under the control of his parents, he will never speak of the curse or who he actually is to anyone or anything, else those who are told will be killed." It never said _anything_ about him not speaking about it _after_ he was returned and back in Mneme's servitude! A cocky grin lit his lips…god damn, he loved loopholes!

Of course they had never stated he couldn't speak when he was in servitude…he needed to in case she sent him out on missions. And they never said he couldn't tell the two who had been the cause, because they never thought he'd encounter them while under her strict rule.

She had never counted on one of them coming to Duo…

He was free to say whatever he wanted…

"Do you have a while? It's a long story," Duo wondered, looking up to him with a smile. Heero blinked in surprise and just nodded. He didn't want to take away any of the precious time Duo had to explain with unnecessary words or questions. "Good," he continued. "Then let me start from the beginning. My real name is Democritus, and I am _The_ God of Death…."

* * *

_Hope you all enjoyed this latest installment! I'm working on Chapter 16 right now...hopefully that'll be up within the next few days before I have to go back to work, LOL! Tell me what you think? I know these are getting a bit longer, I really do hope you all enjoy them. And thank you SOOO much to everyone who stuck with me even after the long hiatus, and also the new readers! I hope to keep you all entertained and coming back for more...lol, not even _I_ know how this will turn out anymore..._


	16. Chapter 16: Crimes of Passion

**Chapter 16  
Crimes of Passion**

**

* * *

**

Trowa hesitated, hands resting a mere centimeter from the wall. Why was he doing this? Was he actually starting to believe his own delusions? Gnawing lightly at his lower lip, he shifted uncomfortably in the darkness of the guest room. All he really had to do to check on Heero was to go in to Heero's room right next to the guest room, make sure he was still there, and leave. But for some reason, the idea of having to be near the emotionally wrecked man for more than a few minutes at a time—much less touch him or risking touching that damned cross—made his skin crawl. Was it for the same reason he suddenly feared to touch the wall? What the hell was wrong with him? 

Was madness contagious?

Swallowing hard, he could feel his determination shattering. More and more, he wanted to just turn tail and run. Leave behind everything. Quatre. Wufei. This infernal mess that had been created. But he knew more than anything, he couldn't run from himself. Even in his amnesia before, he could still feel the visions gnawing at the back of his mind, no matter how hard he had tried to shove them aside. But that didn't make the temptation any less there to just disappear into space like he was so famous for doing. After all, if he ran, he would never have to explain to Quatre why he couldn't answer his questions….

A groan and sharp gasp from the other room caught his attention. How the hell had that carried? Normally, the thickness of the walls left even the loudest of noises muted; designed so that the lovers could have their privacy. So how had such a minute sound carried? Anxiety ate at his insides, his fear beginning to clog his throat and make his heart thunder in his chest. But he couldn't let this get the best of him. He was a soldier…right? Although given, battle never consisted of gods making people disappear or challenging the long standing belief that you heard voices and were crazy. Biting his lower lip, he pulled on his inner reserve he had used for fighting wars and let his fingertips lightly brush the chilled, off white wall. When nothing sparked behind his eyes, and he didn't suffer from any psychotic episodes, as Sally had dubbed them, he let his palms come flat against it.

Still nothing out of the usual, except the sound of Heero's heavy breathing…

He slowly moved to lay his ear against the wall….

Directly opposite from him, a shadow laughed, the exhale of its breath piercing the night in a tone reminiscent of pained groan, his inhales sharp and fast. Licking his lips hungrily, Loki waited as Jehovah's Oracle pressed his ear to the wall….

Trowa never knew what hit him.

**_oOoOo _**

Squinting against the hot desert sun, Heero lifted his hand to block the light, trying to focus on what he could see. Moments before, he had been sitting with Duo in that strange place, and now he seemed to float above the rippling sands of a desert that felt so familiar…a place that seemed to call to him like a long lost lover. The childhood Heero never had….

"You're in my past," Duo told him quietly. Blinking, the Japanese man looked to where the American stood beside him, hair in the plaited braid and body clad in the trademark priest's garb.

"You got better?" Heero stated, shocked, eyes skimming the other for wounds. A shake of his head and a small smile was the only reply that he received, before being pointed off in the direction of two lone figures trudging on horse back across the rolling sands and hills…

"Watch…this is kind of how it started. The redhead is Solo…but you'll probably know him as Chris…he's had many names. Cass, Solorick, Solo, Christof, but he's always been my brother….."

**_oOoOo _**

"Tell me again why we're going to Egypt?" Solo demanded angrily, pulling his face covering up higher across his pale features. Every inch of flesh unfortunate enough to personally greet the sun was cracked and burned, making talking an agonizing chore. Even his damned freckles were getting freckles! Scrunching his nose in distaste, he shifted again on the horses back, giving thanks to Loki for his and his companion's immortality. Hell, they'd already killed off four riding animals on this cursed quest, and had it not been for Ares finally caving in to his son's begging and giving him horses from the gods personal stock, they would probably be on their 12th beast a piece!

Unlike him, though, the ever buoyant and overly happy Democritus seemed unfazed, instead gawking around the barren landscape with the glee of a small boy given his first sword.

"Oh, come on, Cass! Don't tell me my poor Scotsman is fed up with such a change of scenery?" he teased good naturedly. Solo snorted.

"If the scenery bloody well changed!" he practically screeched, voice falling deep into the Scottish brogue as his indignant rage swelled. "Och, ye bastard, we've been starin' at the same layout of bloody sand and bloody sun and bloody, bloody….bloody _sand_ for weeks! We've traveled more miles than I ever care to see in years…Och, I doona ken where I live anymore!" Feeling his irritation, the horse beneath him lurched, rising up with the crescendo of Solo's voice as he cursed in irritation at the desert, the sun, and just immortal life in general. Things were supposed to get easier and more posh with his new standing as high priest to the Norse God Loki. Not lead him to be peeling from sun burn, with sensitive parts of his body filled with grit in crevices he didn't even know _existed_ before the sand had found its way _into said crevices_. Rubbing angrily at his burned wrist, he cast a seething glare over to his friend. "I miss the highlands," he pouted, forcing the accent aside and trying to take on the rigid but melodic Middle Eastern dialect they had adopted on their journey. "By Dagda, Demo…I want to see the heather blossoming. Sit by the stream and watch a spring gloaming…I'd rather be in the blasted Slavic cold than this inferno." Slumping weakly, anger drained, he gazed out bleakly at the landscape.

Democritus grimaced. It was hard to feel sympathy to someone who so loved their home, but he could relate. Scotland was a magical place, and he too missed the rolling hills and sweet smells that came from his friend's homeland. Placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, he gave a little sigh. All he could see was the deep green eyes of Cass, staring desolately at the burning red sky laid out before them. The rest was covered in the thick white garb and head wrap, and for good reason, the Greek noted. Even the skin surrounding those emerald orbs were turning red and cracked from burn, and Demo ached for his friends discomfort.

"Because," Democritus sighed. "I'm anxious to go scope out the pantheon. You know there's a treaty being formed between Wepwawet and Hades. I'm anxious to see how this is going to play out…" he promised. "After all, it's not often pantheon's cross." Grimacing, Solo cast a scathing glare over to his friend, piercing gaze seeming to peel through the lie Demo had so convincingly told himself since he received news of this joining. Democritus shifted on the horse, slowly peeling his hand away.

"Tell me, and be honest…does this have anything to do with the fact that Hades was the one who convinced your parents to Earth-Bond you?" Solo asked quietly. The air around them chilled considerably to an almost artic chill, making the beasts shimmy once again. Face contorting with barely restrained rage, Democritus jerked his body and horse away from his friends. He gave no reply, but the temperature change was enough to prove the truth of Solo's fears. Democritus kicked his mare hard.

"EEYAH!" he snapped, heels delving into the beast as he quickly sped forward. Solo growled his impatience and followed, sand swirling in their wake like the storm that brewed on the horizon. Something felt bad about this entire thing…and he was quickly beginning to despair. While his bràthair had more than once proven his abilities, he had also proven his impulsive behavior beyond a doubt, and Solo feared that they were about to pay a dear price for Demo's deep seated fury.

**_oOoOo_**

Midnight claimed the landscape by the time the two riders neared the quiet, make shift village. Tents were dark and drawn as workers had their rest, the only noise from the guards making silent, lazy rounds and murmuring jokingly to each other. A red clay and brick building stood, half constructed, at the edges of the encampment. It was small, surprisingly so for the normally large Egyptian structures this part of the world was known for. Yet this was exactly where Democritus wanted to be. Pervading the air, he could practically _taste_ Wepwawet's energy here…as he with Hades as well. This was the place where the sacrifices Wep would be offering to Hades would be stored…sacrifices that _should have_ belonged to Democritus.

A slight growl crept along the edges of Demo's lips, threatening to spill out. Only long practiced self control held it back. Instead, he continued to let his mind sink into the darkness of his rage, his body going cold with the anger he felt at the Greek god. Self control prevented the temperature around him from changing as well. Why worry Solo more with his thoughts, when it was clear the Scotsman was having fears of his own? And for good reason…Democritus wasn't even so sure he trusted himself this night.

Ever since he was born, Hades had it out for him. The bastard child of Ares and Aphrodite from a marriage that lasted mere days, Democritus was unwanted from the beginning. Aphrodite had even approached the Fates, asking for advice. She didn't want Democritus, for he was a constant reminder of all the things in her past she wished to forget, believing his smile was too much that of his fathers. But Ares, Ares refused to even look at the boy, claiming his eyes were exact duplicates of his mothers. From his very birth, he stood as nothing more than a painful reminder to both parents of a past neither wanted to recall. But instead of providing her with a means of shirking the responsibility, they had provided her with chilling news. Her son was to be _the_ God of Death. And not just to the Greek pantheon…but to the Slavic, the Egyptian…he was to be _it_. The first Deity made to transcend religions. Even up to Scotland with the mythical faerie creatures of the Tuath de Danaan. He was to be the famous, revered reaper.

His position would have cast him with riches. Gold beyond comparison. His realm, which was the only thing he had left, would have been filled with palaces and offerings from people and gods alike trying to win his favor. In every council of every pantheon, he would have a seat and a say in the way they ruled their world. He would be the most glorious of the gods…the most powerful of all creations. But as all born to great power, many despised him for this gift. Many wanted to do something to prevent from gaining the rights that were his. Hades had just been the one to get to him first.

When Aphrodite bragged about her son with only halfhearted love, it had immediately caught the attention of the smaller, jealous, vain god of the underworld. Already he was angered at the other gods for his own exile from Olympus, and now to find out that a little brat was going to take away his position as Death amongst the Greek council? This could never stand for someone as egotistical as he, and so he called upon all the charm of the best conmen, and slowly moved in to make the kill. It had been easy to manipulate Aphrodite due to her own pain and fears. All Hades had to do was pick at them.

"He'll probably be just like his father…just as indulgent. As cruel…. Most likely just as _stupid_." Faced with the possibility of having a mini-Ares running around, Aphrodite had been horrified. She even, reportedly, had pondered killing off the child to avoid such an issue, although Zeus would have had her hanged for such treason. But Hades had put thought into his plan, and like a loyal "friend", he moved in with the perfect solution to her problem.

"Maybe you should send him to the mortal world…let him know the pain of those he'll take, so he'll never take the gift of eternal life for granted. Send him there and let him know how important his position is…raise him to respect his elders and you. That way, he'll never grow up as spoiled as Ares, and he'll never have the opportunity to become as stupid as he…."

As Democritus had been told, Aphrodite at first had been nervous. But apparently, it was the perfect bargain. She would be forced to share none of her riches with her bastard of a child…she would not have to look upon him while the wounds of her break up were still so fresh, and she would not have to even think on him. She could send him off to Greece to be trained as a Spartan warrior—to harden up for the job to come and learn how to be a man, or so it was said. Apparently, since Ares refused to pay attention to him, this would be the best way for him to learn to fight. From there, he would taken by Athena and dropped somewhere else, to learn of culture and art…from there he would be trained in how to be a god by Zeus himself…. After graduating from his "lessons", he would continue to remain on Earth, stripped of most of his powers, outliving everyone and everything around him. He would be treated as nothing more than a lesser god, and a bitch to all the Pantheons…for he would be innacceptable.

He would be a god raised as a human. The ultimate humiliation. It would make him dirty. Weak.

Forever _nothing_.

And his mother had agreed. That whore…that whore had agreed! She had stripped him of almost all his powers to relegate him down and not give him an unfair advantage over the mortals he trained with, but had cursed him by not letting him now of his own immortality first! He had loved once…had friends and allies, and they had all _died_, while he remained cursed. Immortal. A disgusting, humiliating disgrace as a god without even friends in Olympus or other realms to ease his pain! Yes, he had Solo…but Solo had a curse of his own…thrown together out of desperation, sometimes Demo wondered whether the two men became comrades from fear of being alone, or through genuine like of one another.

Gritting his teeth, he felt sure that they would shatter from the pressure. Staring at the monument erected to make peace between Wep and Hades, he felt as if he wanted to weep and scream at the same time in jealousy. The tribute in there should have been his. He should have been given these riches—these pleasures…. Instead, he was left aching and wanting…left with nothing other than the poverty they had damned him with and the small kindnesses he could beg from them. Left with no parents, no home…no one to run to or go home to after his training in Sparta had ended…no place to live and no food to eat. He, a god, who should have been granted the most luxuries of them all, the most powerful of them all…had grown up as nothing more than a worthless orphan in a world where the homeless were considered a disgrace.

All he had left was his brother. And while Solo may not have been blood related, he sure as hell was the closest friend and ally he had through out the years, and would have done anything to protect him. Casting a glance to the side, he studied the man from the corner of his eyes. Energized by the cool night, Solo studied the perimeter of the dying bonfire, the embers glowing and casting reflections in the green eyes. Hood and face covering down, the fair skinned red head idly thrummed his fingers across his lips, lost in his own thoughts as well. No doubt caught by the demons of a past as equally troublesome. After all…life for a natural born druid was equal parts joy and horror. At least from what Democritus had seen.

"Remind me again what we are doing here, _bràthair_," Solo requested, voice too low for normal mortal ears to hear. Shifting on his steed, Demo resisted the urge to clear his throat, feeling his emotions sooth at the calming tone of his brother's voice.

"I just want to see the sacrifices," Democritus stated, trying to convince himself as much as Solo of this truth. Despite the constant smile Demo wore, he knew that Solo could see straight through the mask, and could see how much the prison sentence of being cast to earth killed the god who desired nothing more than a home. Instead, he was forced to wander…or watch all he loved wither and die before his immortal eyes….

"Do you lie to me on this?" Solo wondered.

"God, let us pray not…." Slipping off of his steed, Demo took the reigns of his horse and handed them over to Solo. "You stay here. It'll be easier if I go alone."

"But what if you do something stupid?" the Celt demanded. Smirking, the violet eyed god glanced over his shoulder. Suddenly, his head dropped, shoulders shaking with dark mirth.

"Then it'll be like every other day, will it not?" A gentle smile curved the red heads lips, and Solo patted his brother on the shoulder.

"Watch yourself, D…I have a bad feeling about this night. The world feels like even it weeps for you on this day."

"Oh, go heal a wee beastie and get the Earth loving out of your system, will you?" Democritus demanded, giving a little huff. Yet even though he teased, he too had to swallow down his fear. Something screamed that he should go back. Begging him to leave. But he never listened. After all…the only time anyone ever told him to do something, it only wound up hurting him in the end. This time, he would listen only to himself. So he went forward, advancing until he made it to the edge of the fire light, slowly and silently skirting around the fringes. Had he been able to use his powers as the other gods, he could just zap inside. But being cursed to live his life on Earth, he had strict limitations. And after running away from Greece in the middle of his Spartan training, he had never actually learned how to harness his godly abilities. So instead, he relied on the training he had received as a mortal warrior to guide him quietly amongst the unprepared workers of the temporary alter, until he reached the stone edifice. Glancing around to be assured that he hadn't awoken anyone, he took a shaking breath.

_I'm just going in to see what should have been mine…. Just a reminder to me of my own misery…_ God…he was a horrible liar.

Swallowing down the sorrow that was a constant companion, he took a few fortifying breaths to strengthen his resolve and gather his will, then forced himself to take the next steps forward and into the makeshift temple. The shaky, half built clay walls crumbled near the entrance that would soon be sealed closed, flaking as his fingers brushed over the smooth surface. Darkness suffocated him once he was inside, threatening to crush him under the heavy pressure of its weight. He forced himself not to run, feeling along the wet surface for guidance. Normally, a god would be able to see perfectly in the dark. Being earth-bound had stripped him of those abilities.

_Gee, thanks, Mom,_ he thought sarcastically. God, he hoped the bitch rotted in hell.

As he moved, he could feel the interior becoming drier. Normally, these types of monuments would be much grander and made out of the nearly unbreakable stone that the pyramids were constructed from. But this one was meant to only last until the sacrifices were sent to Hades. Wep and Hades, it seemed, didn't want word of their alliance getting out to too many people, and were keeping the offering under wraps. The only way Democritus himself had learned was when a drunken man had bargained the knowledge to Loki, who had in turn slipped it to his High Priest, Solo. Solo, his ever loving brother, had let him know…leading them here….

Emerging from around a corner, he noticed along the maze of the hallway a flickering of candlelight, peering along the edge of another twist. Why would there be candlelight if gold or something were being housed here? Was it possible there were workers still inside, carefully constructing a painting? Or would it have been guards…?

Crouching down to a near crawl, he pressed himself against the solid clay and closed his eyes. He reached out with the power that was always bestowed on Death, seeking out what life forms could be in that room. Two humans registered…young, about 14…males…. Smelling of fertility, virility, virginity, and…fear.

They were….

…they were the sacrifices….

Violet eyes flaring open, he lost all coherent thought, rage instead boiling up inside of him. These boys would have been his! They would be _abused_ by Hades! They would be cast aside! When instead they could have belonged to him…they were supposed to be his companions! His friends! Hades had enough. Fuck, Hades had entire _harems_ of sacrifices, whereas Demo had what? A friend. A brother at that. He had no lover, no life…no one who he could hold onto, kiss, or talk through the night with. In all his life, Demo had never even had a real _hug!_ He was cursed, stuck in immortality while the world around him was mortal, and here, Hades was taking the sacrifices that could have been his. Two boys who would have shared their afterlife by his side, been his pampered pets.

And instead, Hades was going to get them.

Rage consuming him, he pushed himself to his feet and stalked around the corner, no longer caring what happened to him. His hand waved, conjuring his weapon of choice—the scythe glowing with the bright green matter of the dead—and began twirling it in a deadly circle around his wrist. So Hades thought these boys would be his…but they weren't yet. Not until their souls were captured with the spilling of their blood upon the sacred alter. And if they died before that?

Well…Hades wouldn't get them, and Demo would have the satisfaction of momentarily reclaiming what should have been his.

To hell with the consequences. Who could care less what Hades would do to him? It wasn't as if he had anything left to live for anyways. How in the hell did you punish a man who had nothing left to lose?

Stepping into the chamber, he glared across the dimly lit room, the flames flickering in their oil. It was lined with silk, gold, and other riches, the alter standing in the middle lined and ready to gather the blood of the two boys. Paintings danced along the edge, depicting scenes of peace, life, and alliance, done in such stunning detail it would have left even the most masterful of artists back in Democritus' homeland of Greece to drop their jaws in wonder.

But it wasn't that which left him breathless.

It was the boys.

Sitting, paralyzed by shock, were the two most beautiful males Democritus had ever seen. Even the artistic eye of Phidias had nothing on the image these two boys portrayed. Soft brown, almost black orbs gazed up from one of the, the other's head ducked in terror and hidden in shadows. Their caramel skin was flushed and trembling as they tried to scoot away. The one with brown eyes moved forward, clean shaven head a contrast to the sharp, thick brown of his furrowed brows, placing his body in front of his twin.

"Who are you," the boy hissed, voice soft and melodic, filled with malice.

"I am…Death…" Demo murmured, studying him with awe. Such beauty and strength this Courageous boy possessed, covered in the careful tattoos that depicted his standing as human offering. Such slender beauty and pride Democritus had never, ever seen. It made his heart hurt with want. His body shake.

"You are here to sacrifice us? Because we will never willingly serve that scum god!" the sacrifice nearly spit. A timid hand reached forward, the more nervous one attempting to pull his brother back. Timid whispered softly, trying to call off Courage, but Courage held his ground. "You hear me? _Never!_" Democritus couldn't help but give him a soft smile.

"I am not here to sacrifice you," Demo said soothingly, the scythe slowly coming to ease, metal blade on the ground. Quickly, it disappeared, for he did not want to frighten the two out of trusting him. "I actually am here to free you." Timid's eyes lifted, hope touching those deep orbs as he shifted forward.

"How?" the nervous one asked. With a voice as sweet and subservient as his attitude, Timid brought out the fierce, protective quality in Demo, making his blood boil at the thought of Hades cruel, ice blue hands touching such sacred flesh.

"You would still die, but this way, you would be reborn, free from his touch. Forever," Demo promised.

"And what do you want?" Courage, the stronger one, demanded. Demo shook his head, a sad smile touching his lips.

"What I want is what I can never have. Friends. Love. It is something Death can never possess…" Demo murmured before he could even stop himself. Surprised at his own outburst, he quickly tossed back his head and laughed, covering up the momentary lapse in his control with the customary laughter he had adapted so long ago. Tossing chestnut, thigh length strands over his shoulder, he looked to the two boys. "But what does Death care of such curses, hm? The fact of the matter is that I have a personal grudge against Hades, and freeing you from his grasp is the best way to do that." Slowly, Timid pushed his way forward, the chains rattling as he moved, deep eyes gazing up through a mess of brown hair.

It was then the main difference between the two struck them.

Timid had the most astonishing, cobalt blue eyes….

"Hades has cursed you?" Timid asked quietly, slowly tugging back his brother from where he stood like a watchful guard. Courage moved back, allowing a closer space between the two. Demo studied them a moment, before he nodded.

"In a way, yes. He has practically destroyed me," he stated.

"So you can never have a friend?" Timid wondered, voice dropping with sorrow. Democritus wanted to cringe at the sadness there.

"I have a brother," he snapped.

"Don't yell at him! He's just trying to be nice!" Courage intervened, black eyes flashing with indignity. Quirking a brow, Democritus gave a soft laugh.

"Sorry, kid. I'm not used to being interrogated by people I offer to help."

Courage went to open his mouth, but Timid slapped a hand over it, causing Death to laugh even harder at the annoyed look it brought onto the more dominant twins face.

"If you free us," Timid said, voice rising over the tinkling of laughter, "then I will promise you something." Slowly, Democritus looked to him, violet orbs still alight with mirth.

"And what do you have that you think I want?" he demanded.

"Eternal devotion."

Democritus fell silent.

"I swear to you, that in every life I am born into, my soul and heart will be yours. If you free me and my brother eternally from Hades and any other god, then I will forever owe myself to you, and you alone. I will be your friend and anything else you ever want of me. If you just make sure that I am only yours, and my brother is never enslaved," Timid stated in a rush before either could speak. Courage's eyes went wide, before his head snapped to Democritus.

"I will come too!" Courage cried out. "Please…do not separate us! Let me go with, just so long as you promise my brother is never hurt by you. I will swear my soul to you as well and promise you my love and loyalty as a friend and soldier. I swear this! Just please, free us!"

Democritus stared in shock.

He knew they were bargaining for their lives, but none had ever promised something like that to him before. Swallowing hard, he gave a little nod, slowly making his way to the two boys who sat, staring to him hopefully. The bald Courage looked up to him, Timid tightly clinging to his brother's arm as they waited for his reply. Slowly, Democritus kneeled down before them.

"Should you promise this to me," Demo whispered, voice rough as he fought to not let it crack, "Then I will protect you through the ages. But you must never love any other but each other, and must stay loyal to me in this for all the centuries to come…"

They both nodded quickly.

"Then, my precious ones…my companions, you shall have your desire."

Democritus began to rise, but suddenly, Timid grabbed him, slender, chain linked arms flinging over his head and around his shoulders. At first, Demo readied to be attacked, but was surprised when the boy instead pushed into him and clung tightly, arms latching together behind his neck as those deep, stunning blue eyes were buried tightly into the God's neck. His own violet orbs widened as Democritus sat in shock, then he slowly, ever so slowly wrapped his arms around the tiny waist. A hug…the boy was hugging him….

"Thank you," Timid whispered sincerely. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Democritus hated the fact that he would have to destroy this precious body to free him. That he couldn't just take the two as they were back to the palace he should have, and forever protect them in the home that he was eternally deprived of. He didn't deserve such an act from someone so beautiful. But the fact that he was receiving it made his heart break.

"I swear to you," Demo replied, voice soft and fierce, "I will take care of you forever. No god shall ever touch you while I live. I swear." Nodding, the boy pulled away, looking up to him adoringly.

With that, Democritus stood. Before either could say, the Scythe had appeared and swung, leaving only a surprised cry from one of them, followed by the sickly sound of splattering blood. Silence filled the room, pierced only by the heavy sound of severed heads and lifeless bodies hitting the dirt.

Democritus felt the tears spring free from his eyes.

The first person who had ever hugged him, the first person who had ever even looked to him with something similar to love…he had just killed.

At that moment, Death hated himself.

* * *

Sorry this took so long to put up. I actually was hospitalized recently for a severe allergic reaction that almost killed me (I'm allergic to CHOCOLATE! -sobs-)...then work and other stuff came up, plus a HUGE case of writers block on how to portray this. I hope I did okay!

Thanks for reading!


	17. Chapter 17: Boundaries Collapse

**Chapter 17  
Boundaries Collapse**

* * *

Heero closed his eyes, gnashing down hard on his lower lip as the echo of blade against bone faded from his ears. Clinging tightly to Duo's hand, he could feel the soft trembling of the slender digits in his grasp, and resisted the urge to grab onto him. The air around his lover had changed, becoming closed off and alone. Even the god's wrist had tensed—evidence that it was almost hard for the boy to keep up that much contact. 

"So you were cursed for killing them?" Heero pressed after a moment, slowly turning cobalt orbs to him. Duo blinked away his tears, nodding, still standing beside him. The screen that the events had played out on had faded, and the Japanese pilot could feel the world around them beginning to flicker. Suddenly, he was back on his knees, holding the battered American…no…the battered Greek God close in his arms as the smaller frame clung to him.

"Not just any 'them', Heero. That was you and Wufei," Duo murmured, refusing to meet his eyes. Blinking his surprise, Heero shifted, lifting the whipcord body up into his lap and tucking his chin over Duo's head.

"Please tell me I was the brave one," he joked. Duo shook with laughter under him.

"No…you'd think, huh? You were the timid one. Wufei was the stronger one. Total role reversal, ain't it?" Duo snickered, then sobered as he continued. "Your eyes…neither of your eyes have changed. I was shocked when I met you and realized it," Duo stated, reaching up to lightly stroke his nails down Heero's cheek.

"So just because you freed us from Hades—albeit, freed us via killing us—you're now being tortured?" Heero wondered. Duo sighed.

"Not exactly just tortured." Before Heero could speak, Duo pulled away and tilted his chin back, showing the thin, silver collar latched around his neck. "I'm a slave to Mneme, the Goddess of Memories, who is in cahoots with Hades. The reason they enslaved me was as a punishment for not just taking the sacrifices…but because his sacrifices had declared themselves eternally to me." Heero looked to him confused. "In essence, in declaring your 'eternal devotion,' you promised me your souls."

"I don't understand," Heero said, confused. Duo smiled softly, running his fingers over the beetled brows between cobalt orbs, leaning up to lightly kiss at the puckered spot.

"When you and Wufei declared your loyalty to me if I freed you, I not only freed you from Hades, I essentially stole you. You swore your souls to me. Eternally. You became my sacrifices when I should have had none. Hades, in his rage, demanded adequate compensation, and demanded me as said compensation," he explained, the gentle upturn of his lips never fading, as if he described something eternally pleasant instead of his own slavery. Resisting the urge to give out a gasp or a growl, Heero instead settled with a twitching scowl.

"And no one protested or said anything against it?" Heero wondered, amazed that _the_ God of Death would be enslaved without a protest.

"None, not even Loki, who Solo has sworn himself to."

"How could Solo's own god not say a word?" Heero demanded. Duo sighed, rubbing his hand over his eyes.

"Loki said that sometimes, things like this need to happen in order to set the universe straight." Looking up hopelessly, Duo just shrugged as he spoke. Clearly, he too had no idea what those words were supposed to mean. Opening his mouth to pursue the statement, Heero found himself cut off as something pierced through the dream. It was high pitched, shattering the silence and threatening to do the same to ear drums. Panic gripped his heart as he grabbed onto Duo tighter, not wanting to lose him again.

"Go!" Duo urged, trying to push him off.

"No!" Heero pleaded. "Please, don't make me leave!"

"You have to!" Duo cried out, finally managing to shove him off. "It's Trowa, Heero! Hurry! They've got him!" A violet glow surrounded the brown haired boy's hands, before it suddenly slammed into Heero.

He could say nothing more as Trowa's screams jerked him from his sleep.

_**oOoOo**_

There were times in his life where he had been plagued by visions. These carried with them frightening sights of the future that almost always came true. Things Trowa had learned to classify as coincidence. As he grew older—as the nightmares of rape manifested, deaths he had seen in dreams occurred, and wars erupted, all of which he was powerless to stop—he had learned to suppress these images that played out like movies in his mind. They had gone from overwhelming waves that left him in near seizures to annoying flashes of ghost like specters dancing out of the corners of his eyes. The audio hallucinations still occurred every now and then, delivering whispers of warning. But those he had learned to brush aside. Had learned to cast off.

But recently, the voices that spoke to him became more persistent. They repeated the same instructions to him over and over.

_They took him. They took him away. You know what to do. You know you just need to touch them. Bring the memories out. Break the boundaries on them…_

But he had never listened. Instead, as the peace began to stretch on, he began to slowly take more and more of his pills that Sally had prescribed him, hoping the anti-psychotics would mute out the words and leave him in peace. In essence, he became addicted, popping pills with the same comforting hand to mouth motion of a person who smokes three packs a day. What started out as two became three, then four, then ten. He had his ways of keeping his supply up. After all, he knew how to hack and forge, and Sally never knew of his abuse.

But even with all of the drugging, the voice never stopped. The visions only grew stronger, fighting to get past the haze that numbed everything in his body _but_ his mind. His resistance to the visions was failing, and would have been gone within mere months. It would have left him stripped, vulnerable and defenseless. Just as he had been as a child, where the mere act of touching something brought all the memories of those who had previously held it—and touching a person? Dear God…he knew the seizures would come again. He knew it could kill him. It was why he feared to touch the wall. To touch the cross. He knew whatever he saw would be too much. Would rip down his carefully constructed defenses.

And he was right. With one touch, his boundaries shattered.

Crumpling to his knees, he barely managed to pry his hands from the cold surface of the wall before the first seizure stole his body. Convulsing violently, he fell back on the floor, tongue seeming to swell and choke his cry. Teeth gnashed down with uncontrolled violence, piercing into the thin, pink flesh of his lips, the coppery taste of blood spilling and staining his throat. Groaning in agony, he forced his hands to his head as he rolled to the side, feeling as if his skull would split any moment from the force of the visions.

It was as if he could see everything connecting. From the beginning of time—the soft touch of a woman as she carefully dabbed the worlds into creation like a painter with a picture. Making gods, making faith. Making stars and objects and things and people. Progressing on. The Big Bang. The dinosaurs…Adam and Eve. He saw humans in Africa beginning their migration. Evolution and creation. How science proved religion and religion proved science. Magic, real magic. Shape shifters and vampires, witches and warlocks. All of them laid out in the history of the world. It flooded him, overtook him, and carried him on the journey.

There was the way Duo…no…Democritus, had been cursed. Mneme's cruel eyes as she stared down to Death. _This won't be so bad…Mneme has no feelings. What could she possibly gain from my torture?_ Cold hands. _I hope the boys are…_ pain, pure and simple, ripping through the body _oh god, what is she doing_ and then Death's lifeless form after the first torture _Mother, why won't you help me?_

Then, it flashed. Blue skin of the god Hades, pressed against pure black. White hair and blue eyes that belonged to another man as well. Zechs…those eyes were also on Zechs. Lucifer's toothy grin as he delved inside the small body, whispering everything to make the arrogant, ice colored Greek God ripe for manipulation as one word chanted through Lucifer's head: _Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel…._ The obsession of the fallen Angel with the man he had been stolen from…. Back track in time. Lucifer before he fell, desperate hands grabbing onto the tear stained cheeks of Gabriel. _I'll come back for you._ Gabriel's black hair tumbling onto Lucifer's hands—still pale and white, free from the dark onyx that flesh had become in the fires of Hell. Deep green eyes staring up to Lucifer from a face so resembling of Zechs as he whispered _I'll wait for you…_

But there was no way. Gabriel knew there was no way. Lucifer was lost to him forever.

Flash forward in time. Zechs staring down at white wings dripping with blood and flesh from where they ripped out of his back, the sound of bones snapping. Desperation as he clawed at the ground, lost, unsure what he was. The smell of sulfur. Laughter. Cruel green eyes. Sandalwood. Trieze, standing, black wings spread. _But you're dead, Trieze._ More laughter. _No, Zechs, I am merely home now._

"_What are you?" _He could tastes the desperation in Zechs' voice as he asked, the question spilling from his lips, even as Zechs demanded of himself _What am I?_ Shaking fingers touching blood covered feathers as he flexed his wings.

"_I am the demon, you are my angel. I love you." _A long pause, green eyes turning sad. The world swirling.

"_Please, Trieze. Don't leave me again…." _

" _I'm sorry, Zechs. I wish I knew how to make this work..."_ Rage…potent rage from both ends. Trieze eyes lifting to Hades in submission even as that rage boiled and threatened to steal his control. The black fleshed Lucifer watching with an intense gaze, resisting the urge to lick his lips at the addicting flavor of the "Little Mislead" demon's rage.

Dark plots coming up, flitting through Lucifer's mind even as he smiled so condescendingly but lovingly to Hades. Ways to get revenge. To get Trieze back to Zechs.

To get Trieze back to…

_My grandson deserves to be happy. Zechs deserves to be happy…_

Oh god…no way…

More and more images came, but his mind was hazing, unable to comprehend another touch. Another sight. Another sound or smell. The pain was too much, too overwhelming. It didn't stop. More knowledge kept intruding, forcing into his thoughts, refusing to cease. Back arching, he screamed, feeling as if his head would explode. His eyes bulged sightlessly as he felt the rupture of a vein in them, turning his irises to red. That feeling he knew so well from when he was younger. Spit foamed at the corner of his lips. Darkness, blessed darkness promised to consume him as his heart began to seize.

Breathing suddenly became an impossible task as his pulse thudded out of control in the same rhythm of his muscles' vicious spasms. Faster, faster, harder and harder, and he was sure it would explode….

And then it stopped.

Everything just stopped.

Shaking violently, he felt his body begin to come back to life. Sensors in his head sounded, pinging. Hands: Check. Feet: Check. Stomach….stomach…oh god… _I'm gonna heave…._

He barely managed to force himself to roll before he threw up, the acidic taste of stomach acid coating his tongue as he lost the small amount of food he had managed to choke down earlier that day. Shoulders shaking, he forced green orbs open, praying to god he had at least managed to miss the expensive, 500 year old oriental rug Wufei had been given by his mother before she died. Blurry vision registered only white. _Good…I missed it…_ But something wasn't right. His slowly returning senses noted a soft hand on his back, a voice, unfamiliar yet familiar all at once, whispering soft, soothing words to him.

"Is he okay?"

"I don't know."

"How did… _it_ get here?"

"'It' is a human, Acheliah."

Blinking heavy lids, Trowa slowly lifted his gaze. The first thing that he noticed was the ground. It rolled, thick with heavy mist that was reminiscent of clouds. Two inches thick, it stroked over his hands and heated body in a cool, soothing caress, dampening his shaking flesh with refreshing dew that seemed to pour energy and life into him. Above, the sky glowed a soft white, sprinkled with stars that somehow still seemed to shine. Pillars of blue, purple, and clear sparkling crystals shot towards the sky all around them, like a city that had been created from an earthquake of gems.

Two people crouched before him. But no, they weren't people. They were something more. Beyond beautiful, their eyes were colors impossible of humans. The one who he assumed was Acheliah, for she was the only female, stared down at him with stained glass windows for irises, standing out perfectly against flawless brown flesh and long, smooth black hair. She was lithe, catlike, with a whipcord body that spoke of all the joys of passion. Heavy wings were folded against her back, the same rainbow of colors as those entrancing eyes.

The other looked more normal. Blond hair, deep, sea blue eyes and unbelievably massive white wings. He was muscular, tough, with a scar that marred the otherwise unmarked beauty of his face. Another was behind Trowa, gently soothing back his hair, and he forced his head up enough to see.

_Gabriel…I'll come back to you…_

That familiar voice belonged to the one he had seen—Gabriel. Black hair, emerald orbs…he looked so gentle, but every time he blinked Trowa could still see the tears streaking down his face. Could still see the deep lost love shining as he begged Lucifer to just ask forgiveness.

_You don't understand,_ Lucifer had whispered. _I refuse to bow to man._

_Swallow your pride, Lucifer. For me…don't leave me alone. Don't leave **us** alone…_ There was a child…

Gabriel's high arched brows furrowed, his hand touching Trowa's cheek. The contact made the European jerk, a sharp cry ripping from his lips as thoughts flooded him.

_Why is a human here? They don't belong in heaven._

_Is this another of God's sick jokes?_

_His eyes, they match Rachel's… _Rachel, the name of the child Lucifer and Gabriel had. The name of _...why did she run away? I wish I could find her children…_ Zechs' mother….

Ripping himself away, eyes wide with horror, Trowa launched to his feet. Black shoe's slipped in his own vomit and he dropped once again to the floor, knee thwacking hard on the ground. Pain radiated up his leg, but he dragged himself away.

"Don't touch me. Please don't touch me," he begged.

"What's wrong? Does it hurt?" Acheliah asked. The other moved forward slowly.

"I can heal you if you are injured," the blond angel murmured gently, reaching out. Trowa skirted away from the touch.

"Your thoughts," he gasped. "I hear your thoughts. Please. I can't take anymore. It hurts…"

Gabriel glanced over to the other two, expression doubtful, surprised. Trowa rubbed at his eyes. _God, I've really gone crazy…oh god I've gone crazy…_

"Where am I?" Trowa finally demanded. Gabriel moved a little closer to the human, approaching him as he would a timid animal.

"You're in Heaven," Gabriel explained. Shaking his head, Trowa stared at them.

"Am…am I dead?" he wondered, dumbfounded. Had the seizures finally won? Had the visions finally robbed him of the last good thing he had left?

"Yes…" came a sad voice from behind. Blinking, Trowa jerked as he felt a wave of shock emit from the three before him, their gazes collectively widening. Slowly, the European turned to see what caused such a reaction.

Behind him stood a small boy, barely looking of age 12. Wild purple hair framed his face, matching eyes and pale skin seeming to glitter unnaturally as he twirled a lollipop between thin lips. A tiny, gloved hand was offered for him, as the tiny boy who looked like a refugee from a raver convention gave him a soothing smile. "You're as dead as an angel can be without disappearing, my child. But come, my oracle. Jehova is anxious to meet his missing child."


End file.
